


Counterfeit Emotions

by SolitaryViolence



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Denial, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Enforcing Sadism, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Forced Cohabitation, Gaslighting, Intimidation, L (Death Note) is a Dick, L lives, Lies, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Suicide, Moral Ambiguity, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Recovered Memories, Repressed Memories, Secret Relationship, Self-Induced Vomiting, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Threats, Unhealthy Relationships, You Have Been Warned, my boys are both so fucked up, triggering content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-27 15:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 112,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolitaryViolence/pseuds/SolitaryViolence
Summary: Fifty days of confinement have undermined Yagami Light's mettle. By the time he's chained to L, he's but a brittle mass of nerves.By all means, he should be cleared, since the murders continued even whilst he was imprisoned! Yet, L refuses to let him out of his sight; he knows he has Kira right under his nose, for he is never mistaken.Evidenceis all he requires, and what's the most damning form of such? Why, a confession, of course! And, oh, is he determined to extract one. By now, he’s accustomed to doing whatever it takes to achieve his goals.This chthonic case's outcome sits comfortably within one young detective’s deft hands; after all, fragile things must be handled with care. Everything depends on just how far he's willing to push to attain that admission of guilt.Shall we see how much Light can take?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I decided to publish the first chapter of this after like a year of going back and forth on the idea. Not sure if it's any good, so feedback is much appreciated. Thanks for clicking.

Tonight will be the very first night they spend together. Earlier in the day, L chained himself to Light.

Naturally, Light is opposed to the idea, but it's not like he could refuse when he's suspected of mass murder. Regrettably, he’ll have to sacrifice his privacy to clear his name - that much he learnt whilst confined.

L, per contra, is particularly fond of the idea, for he has a plan - an ingenious strategy to lure Kira into a false sense of security and, when he lets his guard down, to seize him completely. Of course, L is aware that this won't be easy; it will require ample time and patience, virtues with which the young detective is, fortunately, blessed.

Having bid his handler goodnight, L leisurely leads his suspect to their quarters on one of the top floors of the new, near-complete headquarters. Feigning courtesy, he unlocks and holds open the door. No words pass between the two as Light reluctantly advances, with an odd feeling of anxiety festering within. Once inside his new quarters, he takes in his surroundings, finding himself inside a small, rather bare sitting room. A fancy, swirl-patterned beige wallpaper covers the walls, and a similarly-patterned beige carpet protects the floorboards. The most attention-grabbing objects include a crooked beige settee situated behind a coffee table, and in the left upper corner situated in the centre of the room, and a mahogany desk leaning against the wall, upon which sits countless amounts of unidentifiable papers. To the right side of that desk lies another wooden door. In fraught silence still, L locks the first door behind them. Slowly, he slinks up to Light, eyeing him up and down in coarse contemplation. _Yes_, he muses to himself, biting back a smirk, _he shall do nicely_. The leering detective's light footsteps remain unnoticed by the oblivious teenager until a hand is placed upon the small of his back; in response, Light jumps out of his skin, whipping around to face his elder. With a most bewildered expression, he takes a step backwards.  
"Ah," L utters monotonously, furling his outstretched arm, "have I frightened Light-kun?"  
"Yes," Light replies with a certain hauteur, "you have. Don't do that again."  
"My apologies." The detective gives a slight bow. The corner of Light's mouth twitches as he holds back a grimace upon seeing this anomalous gesture. "He did not seem to be advancing. I only wished to encourage him."  
"I was just having a look around," the teenager clarifies. "I'm perfectly capable of moving my own two feet," he says, beginning to demonstrate this capability.  
L chooses not to respond with words. Instead, he simply follows in his younger's footsteps, soon taking the lead so he may unlock the door in front of them. Light is hostile to unexpected physical contact, he notes. He must keep that in mind henceforward.

What a hindrance. That ingrained hostility may be difficult to work past.

They traipse into the bedroom without issue. Once more, Light observes his environment. The design on the walls and the carpeted floor is the same as the one in the sitting room. There's only one bed, with wooden bedside cabinets at each side. Two wardrobes lie against either wall. Curiously, there's also a radiator; indeed, this interior design seems incredibly Western. These dwellings are a little smaller than what Light expected, but he figures that shouldn't be an issue since he shouldn’t spend too much time within them.  
"Um..." Light begins, "are you going to let me get ready?" he asks, unsure of how things are going to work, what with this chain.  
"Of course," L replies in a voice uninflected.

_That's not a very helpful response_, Light thinks.

"Where might I find a bathroom?" the younger of the two questions forthrightly.  
L gestures to their right. "Through that door."  
"Oh, an en-suite? How convenient!" Light observes, using a particularly jocund tone.  
"I thought so too," the detective reveals.  
"You're going to have to come in with me, right?" the brunet inquires, growing tenser with each passing second.  
"I cannot take my eyes off of Light-kun, lest he commits murder," L says monotonously.  
"I am not Kira!"  
The detective stares at his younger with a blank expression, boring a hole through his skull, ignoring his fervent denial. L, the three greatest detectives in the world, is above giving sympathetic responses to mass murderers. Light huffs, annoyed at not being given the pitying response he covets. With little more thought, he turns around in defeat, then ventures inside the bathroom.

To his right sits a sink, above which lies a mirrored cabinet. To the far left of that, a toilet. Against the wall to Light's left, a bath and shower combo. To its right, a tall, mahogany cabinet with glass windows containing towels, toiletries, medicines, and other sundries.

Tentatively, Light steps forward, then sheepishly leans against the sink, staring into the mirror.

_Little narcissist_, L derides in his thoughts as he looms in the doorframe.

Another sigh escapes Light's lips. He isn’t used to this. Delaying no longer, he opens the cupboard overhead and looks inside for a moment before retrieving from it some makeup wipes. He doesn't use much to pretty himself up, just some eyeliner, mascara, and foundation. He put his makeup on for the first time in over a month this afternoon, then lamented about how his technique had gotten rusty, what with him being confined for so long. Misa, obsequious little tart that she is, had assured him he looked perfect. L half-expected her to make some soft of sexist comment, but she defied this expectation. Indeed, L himself sometimes uses eyeshadow to worsen the dark circles under his eyes, for it's all apart of his Stygian sham. Ryuzaki is a character he especially enjoys playing. _L_ revels in deceit, toying with the pathetic hoi polloi as his true self lurks in the crepuscular shadows. This persona is but a hobby - nothing more, nothing less. Ah, but this character is not one of his own construction, no. A late successor of his can be credited with the idea.

"Which one should I use?" Light breaks the silence, pointing at the toothbrushes.  
"Whichever Light-kun likes. They are both untouched," L replies.  
The teenager decides to take the toothbrush with red stripes, continuing to prepare himself as normal. L continues to scrutinise his every move. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Though, L knows he mustn't let his guard down, for Yagami Light remains his prime suspect. Everything about this boy seems flawless: his alibis, his excuses...his everything. But from here on out, L is to be his only alibi. L is going to catch Kira, no matter how far he has to go to get a confession to slip from that pretty mouth of Light's. He wagers the truth will pour out if he has that kid right where he wants him. No, actually, he changes his mind. He is going to _make_ the truth pour out, little by little until Light confesses everything: all the people he's killed, _how_ he kills...the thought alone is satisfying. L wonders how long he can amuse himself with Light for until he gets him to confess out of sheer frustration and unabating desire. Ah, but he shan't get ahead of himself. All shall transpire in due course.

"Um...Ryuzaki?" Light pipes up again.  
"Yes?"  
"I'm done in here," he reveals, bare-faced, as he returns the used toothbrush to its holder.  
"Indeed?"  
For a moment, unfeigned bafflement spreads over Light's face. What kind of a response is that‽  
"Can I change clothes?" the teenager asks, nervously running his fingers and thumb over his knuckles, feeling the bones beneath his skin.  
"I'll allow it," L replies without hesitation.  
"I mean I want to change right now," Light says candidly, almost intimidated by the ogling charcoal eyes that stare him down as if he's naught but a slab of meat. He swallows, suddenly feeling very insecure.  
"Surely, Light-kun would be more comfortable changing his garbs in the bedroom?"  
Light simply nods in agreement. He wants to say "_stop looking at me like that_", but holds his tongue as he knows he should. For a second, he zones out, absorbed by these fretful thoughts, and is only brought back into reality as the room in which he stands is bathed in darkness. Momentarily, confusion racks him, worsening his anxiety, but he soon realises that it was just L turning off the light. Exhaling a shaky breath, he timidly follows his elder into the bedroom.  
"You, um..." he trails off as he closes the door behind him, losing his words.  
"I what, Light-kun?" L pushes.  
"You need to remove these cuffs," Light elaborates.  
"This is Light-kun's plan, is it not?"  
"Pardon?"  
"To get me to remove the handcuffs so he can kill."  
"I can't change my clothes with them on,” the teenager whinges.  
"Light-kun must know that he cannot run even if he tries," L warns. "In fact, I rather think an escape attempt would result in nothing more than an increased percentage."  
"Alright, I get it!" Light exclaims, wishing L would shut up about percentages for once. He knows he's not Kira, and only wishes L could see this too.  
"Light-kun is yelling," the elder of the two observes.  
"Because he's tired and annoyed!" his younger spits.  
"Very well," L all but jeers, finally showing emotion, "no need to get pouty."  
Visibly irked by this comment, Light simply glares. This is going to be a hell of a lot more than he first bargained for, though he shouldn't be surprised, for he never really knows what ludicrous ideas L will form.

All of a sudden, cold fingers curl around Light's wrist. He quickly recoils, withdrawing his hand.

His own reaction surprises him. Why is he so jittery as of late?

"Do you want me to rid you of these chains or not?"  
Light is taken aback by L's sudden change of tone - he's not even using keigo! On one hand, Light finds it offensive, but on the other, he doesn't really mind, since he's been acquainted with L for quite some time now. Indifferently, he nods in response to the question posed, presenting L with his wrist once again. He’s unchained without issue, but the following moments are awkward. L stares.  
"Please, don't watch me," Light requests.  
"Why? Is Kira-kun thinking of killing tonight?" The detective switches back to formalities and honourifics, further flummoxing the brunet.  
"Please, grant me at least a little privacy," Light entreats earnestly.  
"Light-kun values privacy a lot," L drones. "Why could that be?"  
"Oh, come on, it's a reasonable request!"  
The elder of the two notices something, something difficult for the untrained ear to pick up - an ever so slight whine in Light's voice. Certainly very, very bratty. Ah, but so enticing at the same time. Wait...

He shouldn't be thinking about that!

Retaining his self-discipline, L clears his throat, ridding his mind of unseemly thoughts.  
"Go on, then," he says casually.  
And just like that, he walks away, making for the bed. Light hadn't expected him to acquiesce so easily. For a short while, he keeps an eye on that detective, who grabs a laptop from a drawer under the bed, then takes a seat upon the duvet in his usual, froglike fashion. He rests his laptop against his thighs, then opens it and turns it on. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches his suspect intently. If he wants Light to confess, he has to build up trust; trust is crucial, only when he has built up Light's trust in him will he get more serious. If L wants to win, he has to be forbearing and mindful, for Kira is not, by any means, a foolish delinquent. He is calculated and clever, cold and conniving. He knows exactly what he is doing.

When Light is all set, he finally comes to his senses. He is going to have to share a bed with someone.

He gulps, trying to relieve his parched throat. That loathsome feeling inside him only exacerbates; it roots around in his viscera, filling his hollow stomach with nausea. For a moment, he feels like he might actually be sick, so he covers his mouth with haste. _Deep breaths_, he tells himself. _Why am I acting like this? I have to keep control_.

In time, he mollifies himself, at least enough to face his fear. Having steadied his breathing, he turns off the light, letting the room go dark. His elder looks up from the refulgent screen of his laptop as soon as the room dims. It turns out 'getting changed' meant throwing on a loose t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. The detective watches, hawk-eyed, as his dressed-down suspect coyly crawls into bed. He really is nervous, isn't he?

How very curious.

Light's heart races inside the confines of his ribcage. When it comes to these kinds of things, he’s shy, and well aware of that fact. The last time he shared a bed with someone, he was a child. A distant earthquake had woken him; he was petrified, so he'd cuddled up with his parents. _Well_, he ponders, _there's a first for everything, right_? Before he lets himself relax, he holds out his wrist. Immediately, L understands this gesture. He reels in the chain and soon has his younger enfettered once again. Light mutters a thank you, then lies down and settles himself in for the night.

Unsurprisingly, L doesn’t entertain a response, silently getting back to work.

Presently, the detective is absorbed in a certain John Doe case, which he’s confident he'll solve by dawn. The young man's death was ruled a suicide and, indeed, L has found nothing to suggest foul play. He resolves these kinds of cases in his spare time, or when he needs some respite from the Kira case, as there are no murderers to apprehend. Such cases many may find trivial, but L, he sympathises with the victims, for he lost a first-generation successor to suicide. Luckily, he discovered that successor promptly; if anyone else had, that kid would have been deemed another mysterious John Doe, just like the one L is trying to figure out. He's raptly piecing together clues, looking at what the victim left behind, and thinking about whether they were missed or whether they were forgotten. L is of the firm belief that a decent family will look for their loved one. But if the victim had a troubled family life or no family at all, then that's a very different story. A story L knows all too well.

Light watches on as his companion works, bewildered by the fact that he never seems to take breaks. That gets him wondering if he can change that; surely, staying up all night like this can't be healthy.  
"Ryuzaki?"  
Light doesn't even realise he's said anything before L replies.  
"Could Light-kun say that again?"  
"...Eh?"  
"Light-kun spoke."  
"Oh," Light moves the duvet away from his mouth, "I did?"  
"Yes, you did." L purposely slips out of character.  
"What is this?" Light queries, utterly nonplussed.  
"What do you mean?" his elder questions back with artificial artlessness.  
"You've never spoken to me like this before," the teenager states, apprehensively shifting his weight.

L lets out a small chuckle, which shocks his younger. He's never heard L laugh before; it sounds so unnatural, but so...human? He often neglects to acknowledge that L is, too, only human.

How intriguing L finds this situation. So intriguing he finds it, in fact, that he shuts his laptop, sets it aside atop his nightstand, then joins Light under the covers. His nervy younger's widened eyes flit to and fro, revealing the fright he feels within.  
"I do apologise," the detective says, simulating stupidity, "does the language I use bother Light-kun? I thought, since we two will be living together for quite some time, that shedding formalities was an appropriate action to take."  
"I don't mind, really," his younger explains, averting his eyes from L's, "it's just a bit different."  
"'A bit different'?" L parrots. "Speaking of different, you're like a whole new person tonight," he marvels, thinking out loud.  
"Says you," Light ripostes, meeting L's gaze once again.  
"What's that meant to mean?" L asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  
"You talk about me acting different, but you yourself aren't usually like this."  
"How am I acting?"  
"Like..." Light hesitates, "...you know me," he eventually spits out. "You're speaking to me as if I'm a good friend all of a sudden."  
"Oh, are we not friends?" L inquires innocently, donning false puppy-dog eyes.  
"You suspect me of murder," Light reminds him.  
"That's why we're in bed together, Light."  
"I know," he huffs aggrievedly.  
"You consented to this, as did I," L spells things out for his younger, patronising and pontifical.  
"I know," the teenager repeats.  
"So there shouldn’t be any issues, should there?" the detective asks, his radiating air of superiority permeating the entire room.  
"No," Light confirms, trying to ignore the fact that he feels like a rat is gnawing at his insides, "there shouldn't be."  
"But there is," L hazards a guess.  
"What do you mean?"  
"You're nervous," he states, so sure of himself.  
The brunet procures a pretence of nescience. “Huh?”  
"Why is that, I wonder?"  
"I don't know what you mean.”  
"Don't play dumb," L says dismissively as his fault-finding gaze pierces right through Light's flimsy masquerade. "You've no one to impress, not in here."  
"I'm not nervous," his younger repeats.  
"Then what ails you?" the unrelenting detective pushes for answers, driving his suspect into a corner.  
"...It's only nerves," Light admits, so discouraged by the enigmatic eyes that seem riveted to him. "They'll calm, given time. Just forget about it and let me sleep."

Once more, L lets out a chuckle. The rich, ricocheting sound further irritates his younger, for this is not the Ryuzaki with whom he thought himself so familiar.

"Is there anything I can do to ease your nerves tonight?" L purrs, affecting sultry tones.  
Light averts his gaze from the pillow he's staring at to give his elder the side-eye. _What_‽  
"What exactly are you planning?" he questions back, putting himself on the qui vive.  
"To ease your nerves, as I said," his elder utters, dropping his modulated voice. It's still much too early for that.  
"Who _are_ you?" the teenager asks, unable to fathom the man beside him.  
"What?" the detective all but scoffs.  
"You're not Ryuzaki," Light says with certainty.  
"No, of course not," his elder affirms. "I'm L," he whispers as if he's afraid he'll be overheard.  
"Disgusting." Light looks away again, grimacing slightly. For all this time, L has been lying to him‽  
"What is?"  
"The way you're acting," the teenager snaps, his umber-coloured eyes shooting daggers at L.  
"You'd best get used to it," L all but growls, glaring right back.  
"Really, it's revolting," his younger rehashes, gnashing his teeth.  
"Don't be cheeky, now." 

With that sentence, L lowers the pitch of his voice, threatening his younger. To his delight, Light responds just the way he wants him to - he shuts up and settles down.

What a boring façade the detective deems this - acting all amicable and cordial, propitiating a genocidal murderer! He regrets that Light hadn't accepted his offer, for things would have surely moved so much faster if the boy had.

_Oh, well_, L laments. _We'll get there, in time_.

Truthfully, he thinks his suspect to be nothing but a prideful, haughty, frivolous brat. How he longs to tear down that air of arrogance, to rip this boy apart at the seams! He can tell the threads are already frayed; he’s just got to dig his skilful fingers in and slowly snap them, one by one until their host falls apart. By the time he's broken, he won't even know what hit him. Everything will go as planned in due time, L reminds himself, but he has to start gentle, as this criminal is but a susceptible child of only eighteen.

And this criminal is so very full of nerves. Even an imbecile can perceive this much.

That feeling of unease lingers dully, making it utterly impossible for the boy to relax. But it's to be expected, right? Since this is a situation he's never found himself in before. Oh, if only he could feign confidence, as usual! It's as though he's metamorphosed into something...weaker?

He's felt weak lately. Enfeebled, even, like a mere popinjay confined to its cage. And now he is free from his cage, he feels like a maltreated canine, needlessly muzzled and restrained by a delusional owner who thinks him a danger.

He lets out another sigh. All he wants is calm nerves and some shut-eye. Usually, what he needs is something to hold onto - perhaps a pillow? But he's using his only pillow, and the other..._oh_.

It hits him, like a tonne of bricks.

He has some_one_ to grab onto lying right beside him. Oh, good God, how is he going to get away with that‽ L is still staring him down with a gaze that says "_you are beneath me_". Even darkness cannot mask the intensity of that spine-chilling glare. Notwithstanding his fear, Light shuffles closer, holding eye contact. He makes sure he doesn't stare; instead, he simply observes. L's expression is emotionless. How can this be? He was acting all affable and attentive not long since! The disconcerted brunet marvels over just how fast he seems to have changed. They exchange gazes for a short while without words, before Light thinks _fuck it_ and gives in to his desires, wrapping his arms around his elder's waist.  
"What's this?" L inquires, tensing up as he prepares to defend himself.  
"Please, hold me," Light mumbles, making it clear he means no harm. "Just this once."  
"...Are you alright?" Haltingly, his elder reciprocates and holds him close to his chest, resting one hand on his back and entwining the other within the brunet's locks.  
"You did offer to calm my nerves."  
The detective doesn't reply. _This_ is Light's definition of 'calming the nerves'? Oh, this is going to be a long night for L. He wonders how long it'll take for this kid to fall asleep so he can pry himself from his grasp. To be in such a position with a heinous criminal is nothing new to him, no, but most of those reprobates hadn't dared to try anything like this on the very first night. L hadn't expected this het-up child ever to be so bold. And yet, he doesn't think Light is making some kind of tactical move on him, no, that can't be it. Is he seeking comfort? Or...

_Oh_. He puts two and two together, scolding himself for his folly. How could he not have noticed that sooner!? Light's actions make sense now.

Out of sight, he lets himself smirk, poring over how well they will get along. Very well, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Their third night together is when L sets his perverse plan into motion.

Thus far, the nightertale is unmitigatedly mediocre. L agreed to sleep, at his younger's request - or, rather, his behest - so, at present, they lie in bed together. Light, happily ensconced beneath the damask duvet, seems comfortable; this is fortunate, for L would like him to feel as placid as possible, with what he intends to do. By now, the boy should be adjusting to his new lodgings.

It's high time L broke through the hefty sheet of ice ensheathing them in unbecoming enmity. It's high time he set his trap, only then can his callow suspect misguidedly walk right into its bared jaw.

This may be tough to pull off. He inhales a deep breath, then wishes himself Godspeed.

Cautiously, he draws nearer to his unsuspecting companion, who lies on his right side. It's high time to sow those first few seeds of discontent within Light's mind. Delaying no longer, L hastily seizes the brunet's left arm and forces him onto his back, brusquely straddling him. Light's eyes shoot open as his lower half is immobilised by L's legs on his, but before he can even think about screaming, his attacker shoves a hand over his parted lips.  
"Scream, and I swear I will kill you," L growls, instilling pure terror.  
Light immediately struggles to break free, murmuring into the hand over his mouth. He’s a fighter. Oh, joy! That makes it so much more fun to L, who sees the sheer panic in those mottled brown eyes as their owner frantically claws at the hand over his mouth, viciously biting into its palm's soft flesh. L winces, clenching his teeth to prevent any pained sounds escaping him. He mustn't give this child a reaction.  
"I'm not going to hurt you," he assures. "Stop struggling."

As the brunet trembles, his bite loses strength, therefore easing the detective's pain. L stares down at Light, donning his impassive mien, just waiting for his suspect to give in. Yet, alas, he never seems to do so! He thrashes and flails so fiercely, fashioning his nails and teeth into weapons, startled and shaken.

_Very fierce when under threat_, L observes.

Light continues to fumble with L's hand, his breathing erratic and his heart pounding as adrenaline inundates his system. He understands that right now, flight is not an option.  
"I am not going to hurt you," L repeats in an authoritative tone, increasingly irked by Light's unending unwillingness.  
Momentarily, the brunet persists. Though he’s in shock, he's lucid enough to take L's words into careful consideration. With ample reluctance, he unclenches his teeth and stops scratching, slowly returning his hands to his side.  
"Remember what I said about screaming..." L warns as he finally uncovers his younger's mouth.  
Heavy breaths are Light’s only verbal response. Pleased by this, L leans down, then speaks into the disoriented boy's ear.  
"Hush, now," he soothes. "Simmer down. I'm not dangerous."  
Light shows no outward reaction to these words. Though a little unnerved by this, L deems it okay to continue, at least for now. Strategically, he creeps downwards until his face is level with his younger's neck. Light doesn’t think much of this until a pair of lips peck his skin. Involuntarily, the boy gasps, but purses his lips as soon as he remembers L's threat.

Testing the tempestuous waters, L plants three gentle kisses on his younger's neck, then pauses to check for a reaction.

Far too scared to procure a proper response, Light simply stares at the ceiling, unsure what to make of this. Unyielding, L proceeds, placing one more kiss on that same patch of skin before hungrily licking at the flesh, starting at the middle of the neck and ending just below the mandible. As soon as he feels the warm, wet tip of L's tongue against his skin, Light gasps once more and his fingers curl around the bedsheet. As he exhales that breath roughly, his cheeks flush. He didn't know his neck was so sensitive. L continues, kissing Light a little harder this time as he places a hand above the boy's right shoulder to keep him still. The teenager squirms slightly before leaning his head against his pillow, presenting L with the left side of his neck and simply letting things run their course.

He doesn’t know why he is accepting this, nor why he is enjoying it.

His breathing only hastens as L starts sucking on his neck, latching onto him ever so gently, so he sinks his teeth into his lip to try and stifle any other sound that threatens to emerge. Only now does the situation fully register to him. He realises he is rendered near-immobile under L's grasp; L is holding him down, kissing, licking, and sucking at his neck, and telling him to shut up under threat of death. Oh, _God_, why does this arouse him‽ He cannot allow this! He cannot lose his purity!  
"N-no," he protests, pushing his elder away with a hand on his chin.  
"Shh," L sibilates, pinning his younger's wrists down with a grip firm enough to leave bruises, "you're okay. Don't be frightened."

The aghast teenager's only reply is a half-hushed whimper.

L glances down into beautiful brown orbs half-lidded and doe-like, brimming with a macédoine of horror, hunger, and helplessness...

_Oh_, they're so very, very tempting.

"I suppose I'll permit some noise," L croons, making Light's skin crawl, "since you're being so good for me."  
This statement mystifies the younger of the two. He hadn't realised he'd been making noise. In reality, he's been letting out the most endearing little mewls; L so badly wants to hear more, so he keeps kissing and sucking at Light's flesh, trying to find a sweet spot. Light definitely hears himself moan when those debasing lips and that deft tongue brush across a spot just above his collarbone.

_Just a little bit louder_, L thinks, paying attention to that spot.

At that moment, Light lets himself give in, overwhelmed by the lasciviousness provoked within. He lies there defenceless, unable to control the vulgar noises escaping him as L softly nips at his skin. The same question he asked himself two nights ago rushes through his head - _why am I acting like this_? He has never let himself feel so acquiescent, so pliant; never once has he allowed himself to give in to these disgraceful desires of his. But now, he is giving in - to L, of all people! He's getting increasingly impatient, and wants something more than just kisses on the neck - though he'll gladly accept them. Each kiss and every bite begets a feeling Light cannot quite recognise. It's something he knows he's felt before: a strange sensation, an ever-growing desire to throw away his pride and greedily take whatever he’s given. And yet, that feeling doesn't linger, as L unexpectedly pulls away, just as Light's moans get more frequent and fervid.  
"Did you like that?" the detective questions, his words dripping with honey.  
"Yes," the overawed brunet answers breathily, his heart palpitating.  
With a smirk, L suddenly rolls over, setting his younger free as he lies beside him.

He leaves Light a desirous, delirious mess, frozen in place.

That's _it_? That's all he’s going to give him? He’s just going to build up all that tension and...let it go‽ What’s the point of that?

In bewilderment, Light recollects.

He was dozing off when he found himself trapped beneath L's form. He feared the worst would happen, a logical conclusion when someone gets on top of you in the dead of night and tells you not to scream, so he fought. He fought so hard because he feared for his life and his innocence. Then L told him he meant no harm and he felt...oddly comforted? Or perhaps he merely felt reassured after he was scared witless. L kissed him, and he found it...frightening, at first, then so arousing. No one has ever kissed him like that. He's never even touched his neck in such a manner. The way L teased him made him want to let that man steal everything, imbuing within him such a detestable, lascivious feeling. Light is conflicted, for he'll be glad never to feel that way again, but at the same time, he needs to feel that way so desperately, for that's the best he's felt in months. He lost his libido in confinement. It's not like he could have done anything, anyway, what with his hands bound.

Light huffs, then turns onto his left side, laying eyes upon the back of that infernal detective's head.

The worst part of this is that he enjoyed it. This would be so much easier for him to deal with if he didn't. He realised some time ago that he gets off on submitting.

L so easily _made_ him submit. It wasn't long before he'd gotten him to stop fighting by use of mere words. And, oh, is he skilled with words! Whatever he said during that encounter made Light's heart flutter; like when he hushed him and told him he wasn't dangerous - _God_, Light doesn't know why he found that so alluring. He wants L to whisper such sweet words into his ear as h-

The brunet stops dreaming up that scenario. He is never going to let that happen. Ever. Why would he ever even _think_ of that‽ He deems it’s his body speaking, not his mind. He only hopes that this awful state will wither away with sleep; otherwise, he'll have to relieve himself of these feelings in the morning.

Curse L for making him form such abhorrent, deplorable thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

Tonight is different.

Earlier, the shackled pair got into a fight both physical and verbal. Hell, they'd only stopped arguing because half-witted Matsuda had interfered, spouting some nonsense about how their resident darling, Misa Misa, landed a new role. Discourse occurred when L said he'd run out of motivation to work the case. Overcome with chagrin, Light lashed out, unmindful of the repercussions as he threw a punch in L's direction. Naturally, L fought back, kicking Light twice as hard in retort.

"_An eye for an eye_", he'd vengefully remarked.

The fact that there has been tension between the two ever since that incident is undeniable. L is not deterred from his sadistic scheme, though, and is going to make his insolent companion regret hitting him. When Light finishes up in the bathroom, L lags behind, studiously watching his every move.  
"Why are you staring?" Light inquires, his airs and graces on display as he plants his feet on the floor at the foot of their bed.  
"I cannot take my eyes off of Light-kun, lest he commits murder," his elder replies, reusing the phrase that left his lips days prior.  
"I've already told you not to watch me change!" the teenager raises his voice, so close to smashing that infuriatingly angular and _attractive_ face of L's in.  
"Would Light-kun prefer it if I turned my back?" the detective questions flatly. "I suppose whether I did or didn't wouldn't make much of a difference. After all, there are cameras in this room."  
"There are what‽" his suspect vociferates, taking a step towards him.  
"Light-kun is awfully irritable tonight," L comments.  
"Well, what do you expect with what you said earlier‽ You've told me, basically, that my suffering was pointless," Light whines in exasperation. "Have you any idea how much I've put myself through to try and prove to you my innocence?"  
"Light-kun consented to his confinement," the detective remarks, refusing to slip out of character purely to spite his suspect. "In fact, he _volunteered_. I fail to understand why he is complaining."  
"I wish I hadn't," Light admits, looking downcast. "I don't know what I was thinking."  
"Don't act so miserable-"  
"Just unchain me so I can get changed," he interrupts with a peremptory order.  
Resentment for this impudent boy festers inside the detective, yet he keeps his cool. As Light is unchained, the two exchange no words. As soon as his elder sets him free, Light yanks his hand away, then rubs his sore wrist. By now, he's used to cuffs chafing his skin, but not older men handling him so roughly they leave him bruised.  
"Turn around," he commands, meeting L's line of sight.  
Wordless, L obeys, humouring his younger.

"I'm ready now," Light utters after a short while, his voice accompanied by the sound of a wardrobe's door creaking shut.  
L turns around, then draws nearer to his suspect, who is clad in a jumper and sweatpants tonight, picking the chain up from the ground it trails across as he moves forward. When he has Light locked in fetters once again, he finds a chance and takes it. Without warning, he seizes his younger's arm and throws him to the bed, bestriding him.  
"What the hell are you doing‽" Light immediately struggles, baring his teeth in hostility as he glares. "Get off of me," he demands.  
"You can't fight this even if you want to," L says flippantly as he pins the brunet's wrists down. "I'm much stronger than you think."  
"And you're making that clear!" Light exclaims, his fingers curling around thin air as he tries to set himself free.  
"Just give in," the dark-haired detective instructs. "I'll try to make things pleasant for you."  
Light lets out a sound akin to an animalistic snarl. He _detests_ this. He detests being weakened and overpowered, by L of all people! Fruitlessly, he struggles against that iron grip.

It's no use.

In a matter of seconds, Light gets tired of resisting. He doesn’t care what happens anymore, for things can't possibly get any worse for him. He vows not to give L a reaction, no matter how hard he may try to goad one out. At least it'll be over soon. If he doesn’t give him a response, L will get bored.  
"Do what you like. I'm not bothered," Light says with prominent petulance.  
"We'll see," L responds smugly.  
"Don't smirk at me," his younger sneers. _He's a liar._  
"You're such hard work. Why can't you slip back into the mindset you were in the other night?"  
"Don't mention that!" Light blurts out. He's been trying so hard to let that incident slip his memory.  
"There's no use in denying it when the evidence is right here on your neck..."  
L lowers his voice, in both ways, then moves in closer, eyeing up the unmarked right side of Light's neck. Promptly, he plants a soft kiss there. Light responds with a sharp gasp and an unexpected flinch, taking them both aback.

_So much for not giving him a reaction._

L focuses his attention on his younger's neck, wanting to mar and mark every bit of it, but is stopped by Light drawing up his shoulder. Momentarily, he pulls away from the brunet's neck to take a glimpse at him.

A deep fuchsia hue is already suffusing his cheeks. Quite a sudden change of character, indeed.

"No," the brunet objects, breathing heavily.  
L thinks he's just acting coy and coquettish, so he pays this protest no mind as he forces Light’s shoulder down. Once more, he starts to suck at his younger's neck, instantly obtaining a much more vocal response than he received last time, which certainly pleases him. This time around, he doesn't care about noise, for Light’s moan is so very fitting and so very _fetching_. Oh, he wants everyone to hear his little ingenu, who pleads for his elder to stop in between sounds of satisfaction that he cannot contain.  
"Sto-"  
"_Hush_, you’ll be alright," L shushes his incognisant younger.

He smirks at how quickly Light gave in this time. He's such an easy target.

It seems to L as though his suspect had hardly put up a fight, which is so disappointing, as he likes them resistant. Indeed, he was afraid that Light might have tried to bite him again. No, this time it is L doing the biting as he nips Light’s tender skin, upon which forms a rosy mark. Light starts struggling again as soon as L's lips brush against his sensitive flesh, though he can’t do much when he's restrained at the wrists. The detective nibbles at his suspect's neck, blithely ignoring even more words of demurral, still thinking his younger is doing nothing more than acting bashful in an attempt to make himself seem more, or perhaps less, appealing.

Light realises he's going to have to make this a lot more obvious.

"No!" he shouts, making his sincerity apparent.  
L refrains from taking any more lecherous actions and pulls away to look his incipient victim in the eye. Those orbs of Light's are teary, but still so _pretty_, L notes, no matter how lachrymose.  
"Not that side," Light whines pettishly.  
"Why not?" L questions cluelessly.  
"Please, just don't." His younger doesn't elaborate.  
"Why not?" the detective repeats. "I so want to mark every inch of you as mine..." he purrs, undressing the boy below him with his eyes.  
"Because I've said no." Light squirms, trying to disguise the erection in his trousers, just knowing L is picking him apart bit by bit. He probably looks like such a piteously _desperate little cocotte_ right now.  
"Oh, Light, don't resist," L patronises with a mockingly sweet tone. "You know giving in feels nice."  
"I can't feel my wrists anymore," the younger of the two states out of the blue.  
"Don't change the subject," the detective cautions, only tightening his grip.  
"Ow!" Light mumbles involuntarily. "Seriously, you're bruising me!"  
"_Light_," L warns, threatening to get rougher.  
"Fine," the brunet blurts out, "you can kiss me like that, but...please, kiss the other side of my neck."  
"Oh, I see now," L muses, dragging out the 'oh'. "There are two sides to you, hm? You show only one to the world, unmarked and pure. But there is another, one I would wager you have shown only to me."  
"Shut up, i-it's not like that," Light stutters in embarrassment as his blush deepens.  
"Then why do you want to keep one side unmarked?”  
"I'm too sensitive..." he reveals, averting his eyes. He's still far too shy for this.  
"Oh?" L holds back a chuckle. "So that's why you were so loud," he purrs, taunting his younger.  
"It's too much," Light mutters. "Overstimulating."  
"Is that so?" his elder drawls, forming new hypotheses. He's suddenly regained his motivation. "But you feel fine when I kiss the other side of your neck?"  
"Yes," Light confirms. "That feels nice," he says as he presents L with his neck's left side, already marked from the night prior.

The nonplussing night Light wants to forget, yet re-experience.

Ever since then, the wary teenager has been concealing his love bites with turtlenecks and makeup. He mustn't have done a good job with the makeup the first time around, as both Misa and his father asked, on separate occasions during the same day, about what was on his neck. He looked them in the eye and, without missing a beat, told them they must be seeing things. Thankfully, they seem to have believed him, as they haven't brought it up again.

A sharp sigh escapes him when he feels L's lips against the left side of his neck. His breath hitches when L finds that area above his collarbone again. As he was assured, it does feel nice.

He isn’t opposing it now, he's welcoming it. He definitely likes this.

And so, he lets himself relax. The feeling slowly returns to his wrists as the detective lets go. Infested with pins and needles, they tingle, and it feels...quite pleasant, actually. Smiling, he bites his lip to muffle the sound he realises he’s making. L is having none of that. When he realises what Light’s doing, he pulls away.  
"Don't hold it back," he instructs, whispering directly into Light's ear. "I do want to hear you this time."  
Light exhales sharply in reply, so hopeful for more this time. And yet, still, he refuses to do as L says, his stubbornness and embarrassment getting the better of him.

L notices Light is not obeying him when he lays a few more kisses upon his neck. He's still holding back his moans.

No, L cannot allow this. He is going to have to teach Light to obey.

All of a sudden, his teeth sink deep into the skin around Light's collarbone. The boy flinches and cries out in pain, parting his lips. In response to this pitiful sound, L only bites down harder, begetting another yelp from his younger, who clutches the duvet below. Unrelenting, he digs his canines further into Light's sensitive skin, and that's when Light finally speaks.  
"No!"  
L takes no notice of this pathetic, half-cried utterance. He isn’t done teaching Light his lesson. The brunet whimpers in pain and mutters more protests as L only bites down harder; he endures as much as he can, with tears spilling from his eyes, before he feels he simply cannot take any more!  
"You’re hurting me!" he yells, defensively tugging at the coarse strands of L's jet-black hair, trying to push him away.  
Almost instantly, L lets his younger go and pries those hands away from his tangled locks, with a look of candid distress besmirching his face.  
"Don't you dare pull my hair like that ever again," he says solemnly as his heart rate quickens.  
"An eye for an eye," Light says shakily, echoing his elder's earlier statement.

L chooses to hold his tongue. He hasn't the energy nor the patience to explain himself to this kid.

With a furtive sigh, he sets his younger's wrists free, then reaches up and turns off the light.  
"Next time," he begins as he tucks himself in, "do as you're told."  
Light doesn’t reply. Gingerly, he brings his fingertips to his neck, wincing as he touches his bite wound. The pain stings.  
"Does it hurt?" L asks with a self-confident smirk.  
"Yes, it hurts," Light replies flatly and honestly, with no expression on his face.  
"Be grateful I didn't draw blood."  
"Why...?" Light utters an incomplete question in a weak voice, meeting his elder's vainglorious gaze.  
"What do you mean 'why'?" L questions back.  
"Why did you bite me like that?" the brunet expands on his prior utterance, sounding a little distant.  
"You didn't do as you were told, Light," the detective all but growls, keeping his voice low. "You needed to be punished."  
"...I was embarrassed," Light replies after a few seconds pass.  
"That's entirely irrelevant," L says dismissively, a little unsettled by how far from reality his younger's gaze seems at present. "You'll do as I ask of you from now on."  
"Why should I?" the teenager inquires with arrant surliness.  
"Lose that cheeky tone," the detective chides. "Don't forget that you bit me the other night."  
"I thought you were going to-" Light cuts himself off before he can fully voice his thought, then restarts his sentence, "...I was scared," he says, watering down his true emotions. Those words are a lot more delicate than the ones he was originally going to let slip.  
"Leniency is not an option in this situation, Light, not if you keep ignoring me and disobeying my orders."  
Light keeps quiet, taking L's words into account. He switches to lying on his side rather than his back, so may face his elder.

In silence, Light thinks back.

He had found the mild pain enjoyable, exciting even, but it became too much too soon. L bit him to hurt him, not to thrill him. Initially, Light hadn't resisted because he thought he could take it. How wrong he was. _Did I really deserve that?_, he asks himself, so unsure. Indeed, he kept holding back every sound he was making even when asked not to; he had disobeyed a patent order. But who's to say he has to follow orders? Why does he feel so threatened by this guy, anyway? Oh, this is not good, the questions are flooding his mind, he's overthinking again. He can’t stop coming up with new 'why's and new 'if's, he needs to calm down...

And he knows exactly how to achieve serenity.

The very idea racks him with trepidation. Dare he? After what he's just been told? Last time, there were no consequences to this, and really, it’s only for comfort, so he may as well…

With haste, he slips under the covers. He maintains eye contact with his elder as he draws nearer. In his head, L is calculating the likelihood of all different kinds of scenarios; he’s getting ready to push Light away if he has to. That isn’t necessary, as Light has no plan to attack. Nervously, he wraps his arms around L's waist and cuddles up to him.  
"Hold me," are the only words he says.

L mentally rolls his eyes. This again? He would much rather be focusing on his work right about now! Still, he does not object, pulling his younger close.

Light heaves a contented sigh, leaning into L's touch and resting against his chest. Almost instantly, he's sheltered from his negative thoughts by this warm, protective hold. Suddenly, he realises what about this settles his nerves; it’s the way L holds him, this embrace is so..._loving_. He comes to a, rather obvious, conclusion quite quickly - L is holding him like this out of habit, not by choice. It's clear he’s held someone like this recently. Such an intimate embrace would not be shared by strangers or friends, but rather by lovers. Light wonders, just how long has it been since L held that person so lovingly?

Come morning, Light is surprised to find himself awaking naturally. Usually, L's symphonic voice calling out his name rouses him. Oh, he doesn’t want to open his eyes, he's so comfortable lying here in L's arms. He hadn't wriggled away in his sleep, then. He hadn't the first time either, he lay there all night, feeling safe as he fell asleep...he won’t admit it to himself, but he's so starved of human touch, no wonder he reacts this way when given comfort in the form of physical affection. It would do him good to have some positive social interaction outside of work, but L is purposely keeping him isolated from the external world. It’s all apart of his plan to meeken him up nice and proper.

Not long passes before Light decides to bestir himself. He thinks this strange; he feels that it's definitely morning, why hasn't L woken him? Groggily, he pulls away from the detective's chest and looks up. Unsurprisingly, L himself seems wide awake.  
"What time is it?" Light maffles.  
"I'd hazard a guess at around eight AM," L reveals.  
"Why didn't you wake me‽" the brunet exclaims as his half-lidded eyes shoot open.  
"It's the weekend, you needn't work," his elder utters, toying with the hem of his jumper.  
"Eh?" Light questions, taking L's wrist into his hold to stop that action.  
"Watari and I decided," L begins, letting Light reposition his hand, so it rests upon the small of his back, "for the sake of your health and given your tender age, you are to take weekends off."  
"Oh." Light hadn't expected L to be so merciful. "Thank you?"  
"We're taking your wellbeing into consideration, that's all."  
In silent gratitude, Light again leans into L's chest.  
"Are you tired?" L asks.  
"Yes," Light answers laconically.  
"If you wish to go back to sleep I must request that you don't cling onto me, as you are keeping me from my work."  
"Yes."  
"Are you even listening?"  
"Ye~s."

_No, you're not_, L thinks to himself.

He’s going to have to do something about this, isn't he? This boy has taken enough of his precious time as it stands, he could have had so much done by now had that child not been clinging to him! Oh, no matter, he'll sort things out. Given Light's languid state, it isn’t difficult for his elder to grab his shoulders and pin him to the mattress.

In response, Light's eyes open, glaring at the detective with a look that says "_really?_".

"Listen to me," L implores.  
"Okay."  
"I have to get to work now. I can't keep holding you."  
"You're working today?"  
"Of course I am, don't be so thick," he sneers.  
"Alright."  
Oh. That was easier than he thought it might be. He lets go, then gets out of bed to find his laptop whilst Light rolls over. They both suppose a little more sleep won’t do any harm.

Later in the afternoon, something Light does alarms L - who is scarcely alarmed by anything.

He's locked himself in the bathroom, with L having to stay crouched at the other side of the door due to their..._indisposition_. After fifteen minutes pass, L gets concerned, wondering what on Earth that boy could be doing in there. When he holds an ear to the door, he hears what he thinks is...snivelling? Whatever it is, it's a guttural sound.  
"Is Light-kun alright in there?" he calls out.  
"I'm fine," his younger replies with no apparent emotion in his voice.  
"He has been quite a while," L remarks, trying to goad out the truth.  
"I'm on the loo, leave me alone," is Light's only verbal response.

_Little liar_, L thinks.

"Light-kun?" he repeats after another minute or two.  
"What?" comes a muffled reply.  
"Will Light-kun unlock this door for me?"  
"Why would I let you in?"  
"Why are you crying?" L subconsciously slips out of character.  
"I'm not."  
"Your voice sounds hoarse."  
"Go away."

Of course, L isn't going to comply; he knows better, for one too many times has he dealt with depressed teenagers.

He stands, then retrieves from his front pocket a lockpick. Picking the lock requires little effort; indeed, all the locks in the headquarters are designed so L can easily get past them. Before entering, he announces his intentions.  
"Are you decent? I'm coming in."  
No response. A few more seconds pass before he decides to open the door fully.

Alas, nothing could have prepared L for the scene before him.

Near-instantaneously, his instincts kick in and he sinks to Light's level, wrapping one arm around him from the back and restraining him at the wrists.

L doesn’t even realise what he's done at first. He simply finds himself embracing his companion.

With a lump in his throat, he stops holding Light so he may tear off a couple of pieces of toilet roll to wipe the vomit from that troubled boy's fingers. Well, most of it is bile; the poor thing hadn't much in his stomach to bring up. L has always found it peculiar how Light eats so little, and how he always denies feeling hungry, yet he hadn’t suspected _this_. Still, it's in his nature to comfort this boy, for he knows all too well situations like these; he has one particularly disturbed successor but a mere three years younger than Light. This isn't the first time he's had to restrain someone, so they cannot further harm themselves.

Light's response is delayed, though when things finally register, he's in a frenzy, desperately trying to pry himself away from L's protective grasp so he can keep purging. His elder reacts calmly, saying only one word:  
"No."

His voice is softer than what Light is used to; he thinks it sounds almost..._kind_, though he can never associate L with the word 'kind'.

L keeps Light restrained, letting him lean against him as he weeps. Truly, even the word 'hysterical' cannot describe this state. Tears, complaints, and words that cannot be identified over constant sobs escape his lips. And yet, L keeps his composure. At this moment, he almost feels sympathy for Light, but soon shakes off the feeling. He tries to convince himself that he is doing this out of necessity, that it's only because he cannot have his prime suspect voluntarily harming himself.

Perhaps, just perhaps, deep down, he does feel sympathy for Light. If so, he can never let that show.

L determines that Light's actions are characteristic of a long-term affliction; for example, the marks on his knuckles are not all fresh. Some are faded scars. He wonders just how long Light has been affected by this maladie, and decides he'll question him when he settles down. L thinks it disturbingly likely that he may have been suffering for years, given that he seems to have experience concealing his disorder. Those defaced knuckles and his poor appetite are the only real indicators, and even then, if one is not purposely looking for these they will pay them no heed.

Light is more deceitful than initially meets the eye, L notes, and ups his Kira percentage to 5.05%.

From now on he'll have to keep a close watch on what his younger is consuming. He can't have him starving himself to death, now can he? No, he can't let Kira evade justice like that. The nature and severity of this maladie don't matter to L, but for the sake of justice, he shall see to it that Light eats at least once per day henceforward. Abruptly, L comes to the realisation that this illness may benefit him, internally smirking at how well things are going, and so fast too. Oh, the joys of teenage hormones! Light's age aids L even further, for the undeveloped, unwell mind is so pliable!

A vulnerable, weeping child lies in L's arms under the illusion that they offer protection. Pitiful, lost children will so fervidly covet comfort in any form. Sweet children are easy to deceive.

By now, L's little naïf seems to have regained his bearings and is no longer acting quite so hysterical. He sits motionless and silent, leaning against L's torso, and the detective thinks this an excellent opportunity to question him. So, after throwing the dirtied tissue he holds in with the rest of the vomit, he picks Light up bridal-style and carries him into their bedroom. He lowers Light onto the bed gently. The teenager then sits up of his own accord as L takes a seat next to him with his feet on the floor for once. For good measure, he pulls Light into an embrace, and the brunet has the satisfactory response of wrapping his arms around his companion and resting his head upon his shoulder. Light must be so starved of any intimate touch, L thinks, as he seems very prone and very responsive. The detective takes a while to think up an approach, and after coming to a decision, speaks.  
"Talk to me, Light." He alters his voice, using glib and dulcet tones, for he knows they make him seem more trustworthy.  
"...What does it matter to you?" Light replies a moment later, sounding utterly dismal.  
"I'm concerned about you and would like you to confide in me."  
"I don't want to talk about it," he responds instantly this time, with a vacant look in his eyes.  
"Does your father know?" L questions softly.  
"He'd be mortified if he knew!" Light exclaims. His father can never _ever_ know about this!  
"Shush, calm yourself," his elder soothes. "Now, please, divulge. You may trust me, Light."  
"...I don't know what you want me to tell you."  
"Let's start simple, hm? How long have you been battling this?"  
"About two years," Light says monotonously.  
"And I take it you have not told a soul until now?"  
"I didn't mean to tell you. You just-"  
"I know it may be difficult for you to accept, but that I happened to find out is best, for you needn't struggle in silence," L's euphonious voice interjects.  
"Swear you won't tell anyone," Light urges fretfully.  
"Ask nicely." Suddenly, L changes his tone. Those words cut through Light like a dagger.  
"Swear you won't tell anyone, please," the teenager all but begs. Nobody is supposed to know about this!  
"I suppose that's acceptable," L says, then switches back to honeyed words and insincere concerns. "No, I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to. But you must let me help you, Light."  
"I don't see how you can," Light murmurs. He doesn't think he needs help.  
"Is it a control issue? Or an issue you have with your image?"  
"Well...both, I guess," he reveals reluctantly.  
“How do you mean?”  
“When it started, I..._hated_ the way I looked," he all but spits, thinking back. "And, I feel that I still do now, but-”  
"Oh, _Dear_," L emphasises the pet name, "don't think that way. You're stunning."

Out of Light's range of sight, L smirks. He's found a new weakness to exploit.

"I don't see that," the brunet sighs. At this point, he fears he never will be good enough.  
"Do you want to recover from this?" his elder asks gently.  
"No," is Light's resounding reply, for recovery means getting even heavier than he is right now. He can't stop shedding weight, not until he's perfect.  
"Why not? Watari and I could aid you in your doing so."  
"I can’t...I can't 'recover'." Light uses the term loosely, for he doesn't see himself as ill. "At least not until this awful guilt subsides."  
"What makes you feel guilty?"  
"I don’t know. It’s a recent thing. I’ve been feeling...really anxious and really guilty, especially after eating."  
"How recent?"  
"It started during my confinement."  
“But you were making yourself sick long before that?”  
“I was,” he confirms. He started purging last year and soon became addicted.  
"A smart boy like you should know that doing this isn't healthy," L coos.  
"I-I know how bad it is," Light stutters. He understands that this is dangerous, but the end result is going to be worth it.  
“You can cause yourself serious bodily harm. If you keep starving yourself, you could even induce heart failure."  
“I know.” _At least I'll die thin_.  
“And yet, you _want_ this for yourself?” L asks, genuinely perplexed.  
“Of course I don’t want this!” Light raises his voice as tears sting his eyes. _I just want to be perfect_.  
“But you don’t want to recover?”  
“It makes me feel in control of myself, Ryuzaki," he whines. "I don’t want to lose that. Sometimes, it's all I have.”  
“Oh, you poor dear," his elder croons, nuzzling the top of Light's head with his cheek. "Please, listen to me.”  
“I am listening,” the teenager mumbles. He can't believe he's let so much slip.  
“I want you to make me a promise."  
"Okay," he agrees.  
"No more purging, for at least as long as we cohabit."  
"...Okay."  
"I do hope you can keep it."  
Light doesn't reply, drawing their conversation to a close. L lets his lips curl into a twisted smile. He's managed to learn so many things about Light that he can use to force that confession out. And, if Light breaks his promise, which is bound to happen, L is free to inflict deserved punishment.

Yes, things will work out for L, ultimately. As usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eating disorders are devastating, deadly diseases that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. They are not glamorous and they are not desirable. If you're struggling, please, please get help before it's too late. Among psychiatric disorders, eating disorders have the highest mortality rate; anorexia nervosa alone will kill 1 in 5 of its victims. If talk of these illnesses and topics upsets you, you probably shouldn't read any further. This is your only trigger warning.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day they spend together is mostly unremarkable.

The pair are seated next to each other on their settee; Light has demanded that the blinds be open. He finds himself with not much to do other than to watch L work, normally he'd take a stroll or something, but L forbids him from venturing outside the headquarters. He gets the feeling they're going to spend most of their time indoors. He's already starting to feel the effects of stir-craziness in these cramped quarters, but if this proves his innocence, he can endure it.  
"I'm bored," he confesses, glancing at his elder.  
"Do you want to do some work?" L’s response is prompt. "Watari can provide you with a laptop."  
"Not particularly, no," Light says through gritted teeth.  
"Then, I'll see if I can ease your ennui," the detective mutters, shamelessly looking his younger up and down.  
Light narrows his eyes. _Stop looking at me like that_. A few seconds pass, then L holds out his right arm.  
"What?" Light blurts out obliviously.  
L suppresses a smile. He wonders if he'll have to..._indoctrinate_ his suspect. Without warning, he links his right arm with Light's left and forces him nearer. The mimsy teenager's eyes widen. In silence, L brings Light's right arm towards him and wraps it around his own, so the boy clings onto him. Then, he returns to his work.

Light is nonplussed.

How’s _this_ supposed to help? It certainly eases his boredom, yes, but brings panic in its wake. Light's heart beats faster, a pang of perturbation invades his stomach and makes him feel queasy. Why is he reacting like this? Wait, no. No. He's not going to let himself overthink again. He’s just going to relax. For a moment, he wonders why he hasn't yet pulled away. Quickly, he dismisses that thought and decides to be daring. Vigilant, he steadily rests his head against L's shoulder, getting comfortable. L doesn’t react. Huh. That was easier than Light thought it would've been. Is he really so sheltered that, for him, physical contact is a feat? He's never thought about it like that. He guesses it’s at least a little bit true; nobody has ever done this sort of thing with him. He's always been too shy to engage in these types of relationships. But L encourages this, though his actions breed uncertainty, and always holds him when he asks. He still wonders who L had last held, clearly not long ago. When they spoke yesterday, L held him near, and it comforted him, he felt safe, almost like he could trust him...

But he can't. He still has marks on his neck and wrists to remind him of why he can never trust that libertine.

One moment L can be caring and compassionate, the next he can be pugnacious and prurient. The bruises Light has are constant reminders of two instances in which felt truly vulnerable for once. During the very first incident, he had, naturally, assumed that he would've been violated until L made it apparent that his intent was not to harm. Alas, Light doesn't know what L's true intent is. Is it for L's own twisted pleasure, or is it meant to be for his sake? Maybe it’s nothing more than a sick game to L; clearly, he enjoys getting Light all worked up then leaving him unsatisfied. He doesn't like what L makes him feel, not at all.

Then again, he doesn't really know what he felt during those encounters, other than shameful lust.

It was, in a way, different from how that usually feels for Light, which he puts down to the adrenaline rush. In truth, he's appalled and ashamed that he would even think of letting himself be defiled like that. The second and most recent time, he just lie back and let it happen, promising himself not to give L a reaction. But he failed, ending up bitten and bruised. He doesn't know what to do if this sort of stuff is to continue. Should he fight, or lay back and let it happen? He wants to do both. Actually, he decides that he would rather it not happen at all. He is guilt-ridden and humiliated by what has happened to him, and by the fact that he just accepted it because it aroused him.

_Pathetic._

He should've put up a better fight, should've bitten down harder on that first night, and should've fought as he did during their fight! At the same time, he's curious about this and wants to try more. Oh, he's having such discordant thoughts, his head is a muddled mess. He hopes things will calm down if he keeps denying L's filthy advances.

Bury this contemptible curiosity and never accept it again, this is what Light thinks best for himself. He shouldn't be participating in these kinds of relations, anyway. He has no doubt his father will kick off if he finds out about what his son has been doing with L. Light might even be disowned!

With that thought, a shudder runs down the teenager's spine.

“Light-kun?” L’s inquisitive voice pulls Light from his thoughts.  
“Hm?” Light responds, glimpsing at his elder, whose face is far too close to his own.  
“You seem deep in thought,” the elder of the two comments, so soft-spoken.  
“Ah, I...I was, I suppose,” Light speaks haltingly, seemingly void of his characteristic haught.  
“What were you thinking about?” L asks, his voice so soothing.  
“Oh, nothing in particular,” his younger fibs, trying to sound flippant.  
“You need not lie to me." L sees right through him. "Have I not already assured you that I shan’t divulge your secrets?”  
“I believe you have, yes,” Light sighs. "_Don't be so nosy_," is what he'd like to say, but he knows it's best to adhere to L's wishes. If he doesn't, he'll only end up with more imperfections scattered across his unsightly body.  
“Then apprise me of your thoughts,” his elder commands.  
“Must I?”  
“I do hope you're aware of how suspicious you sound.”  
“How many times do I have to te-” Light cuts himself off, and sighs in dismay before speaking up again. Denial isn't going to get him anywhere, for L seems utterly convinced of his guilt. “I was just thinking about, well…”  
“Reticence won’t get you anywhere,” the detective taunts.  
“Before..._that_ night," Light hopes his elder gets the gist of his words, "I was so shy-”  
“You still are,” L interrupts him, speaking through a slight chuckle.

Light shoots him a death stare. _Shut your clever mouth_.

“I...” the teenager begins, uncertain of how to word this. "You made me feel odd."  
“You felt arousal, Dear. It's perfectly normal,” L assures his confused companion.  
“No, you idiot!" Light jibes. "I've...felt that before, and it’s different.”  
“It only feels different because you’re with a new person,” the detective claims, trying to normalise his vulturine behaviour.  
“You think?” his younger questions, too inexperienced to see past L's deceit.  
“I guarantee it,” L says with a smile.  
“...I think I hate it,” Light spits out after a short silence.  
“‘It’?”  
“The way you make me feel.”  
L glares at Light with what the younger of the two perceives as disdain. Oh no, he's said too much, hasn't he?  
“Light-kun?” the detective pipes up.  
“Yes?” his younger replies instantly, plagued by malevolent sensations of shame and worriment.  
“May I kiss you?” L queries, entirely out of the blue.  
“Huh‽” his younger exclaims.  
“You heard me.”  
“You want to..._kiss_ me?” Light sputters. "Like, on the lips?"  
“I'd like to, yes,” his elder confirms.  
“O-okay, then,” the flustered brunet agrees. It's best to obey if he doesn't want to get hurt again.  
“Is that permission?”  
“Yes.”  
L wastes no more time, leaning in with haste and pressing his lips against Light’s, habitually closing his eyes as he does so. Clutching L's arm tighter, the younger of the two lets out a noise akin to a squeak, which is muffled by the ebony-haired man's lips. Not long passes before L pulls away, leaving his younger a bit disappointed.  
“How did that feel?” L questions, silver-tongued.  
“Nice,” a blushing, wide-eyed Light answers, his voice breathy and hesitant.  
The brunet is caught off guard when L leans in once more. In shock, a whimper escapes his mouth, but the detective’s skilled lips again subdue the sound. Mimicking his partner, Light closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the kiss, overcome with satisfying sensations. The tips of L’s cold fingertips lift Light’s mandible, and another shiver runs down the brunet boy's spine. L pulls away for but a second, before giving Light one last predatory peck.  
“Are you sure you hate what I do to you?” he asks with a smirk.  
“...No,” Light concedes diffidently.  
“You are merely confused, Pet. At your age, this is natural.”


	5. Chapter 5

Things are moving along swimmingly.

L's tormenting tactics are finally getting to Light. The detective hadn't even given his suspect time to get ready for bed before he drove him into a corner and lecherously teased him. Though Light put up a fight at first, his emotions triumphed over his logic, and he soon fell right into L's trap.

At present, Light, who modestly perches upon the settee’s arm with crossed legs, has his arms wrapped securely around the back of his elder's neck. Patent lust and yearning brim those beautified russet-coloured eyes, dilating the pupils.

On the spur of the moment, L pulls Light to his feet with arms around his back, and they stand in each other's embrace. Light has to balance on his tip-toes to reach since L is quite a bit taller than him when he chooses not to slouch.  
"Kneel," the elder of the two demands.  
"What?" Light's hushed reply absconds his lips without permission.  
Displeased by this disobedience, L breaks the embrace, prying his companion's wrists away from the back of his neck.  
"I told you to kneel," he growls, his leaden eyes overflowing with derision.  
Daunted by this menacing tone, Light obliges and slowly sinks to his knees, swallowing his pride.

L smirks slyly. This is how he wants Light: servile and suggestible, fragile and affrighted, and so very vulnerable to attack.

Guilefully, he leers at his younger from above, watching him bite his lower lip. He can tell Light is desperate just from the way he's gazing up at him with those hungry eyes.  
"You're so eager right now, aren't you?" L questions, sultry and inquisitive.  
"Yes," his younger mumbles in reply.  
"Oh, you poor dear," the detective mocks, crossing his arms over his abdomen. "What if I leave you waiting?"  
"Oh, no, please don't!"

The whine in Light's voice is so, so alluring, but L keeps his self-control.

"Why shouldn't I?" the elder of the two asks, having to stifle a laugh when Light's breath falters.  
“You can’t! I want to…” Light trails off, feeling so _humiliated_.  
“Don't be shy," L urges seductively. "Tell me what you want, Pet.”  
"I want..." the brunet says sotto voce, with burning cheeks.  
"Speak up for me," the dark-haired detective coos, "I can hardly hear that lovely voice of yours."  
"Please," Light whimpers, unable to summon the words he wants to say.  
"Please what?" L sinks to a crouch, making himself level with his blissed-out younger. "I can only give you what you want if you tell me what it is."  
"Please, give me more," the brunet murmurs, abashedly breaking eye contact as he gulps, with frissons of excitement rushing through his sweltering body.  
"Do you think you deserve that?" L purrs, contemplatively eyeing his younger up.  
"Yes!" Light responds energetically. "Yes, I do, _please_ give me something more this time."  
"You're such a good boy, begging for me like this," L praises, forcing from Light's lips a sharp sigh.  
"I'm n-not begging," Light insists. He doesn't _beg_.  
"Then what’s this?" the detective chuckles.  
"Shut up," his younger says in aggravation, "and give me more. I need..."  
"What do you need, Light?"  
"I..." He can't bring himself to say that vulgar word.  
"You can tell me," L assures, steeping his specious words in scarlet. "I won't judge. We all have needs."  
"I can't!"  
"_Say it_," he spits, changing his tone at the flick of a switch.  
"I ca..." the brunet's words wither away. He takes a moment to compose himself the best he can, then exclaims: "I can't!"  
"Are you disobeying me again?" L questions, glaring.  
"No," Light responds instantly, trying his hardest to stay still, "no, I promise I'm not."  
"Tell me what you need," his lech of a companion repeats.  
"Please, don't make me say it," Light entreats shyly.  
"You'll do as I ask of you," L says, inflexible. "Have we not already established this?”  
"I..._oh_, please, I-"  
“Do you want me to hurt you again?”  
"No, no, I don't!"  
"Then speak to me," he growls once more. "What is it that you are so desperate for?"  
"I-I need..." Light stammers, hesitant to use unmannerly terms, "...need to cum," he spits out, at last, lowering his voice as his blush worsens.  
"Oh, is that all?" L smirks, forcing eye contact by lifting Light's chin.  
"That's all," the brunet confirms, mumbling.  
"Do you want me to let you get yourself off? Or...?"  
"Yes, let me, please!" Light is heedless to L's insinuations.  
"Sit properly for me, then."  
Light does as he's told, leaning against the settee behind him, sitting with his legs slightly apart. He makes sure L can see just how hard he is. They hold eye contact, wordless until the younger of the two decides to break the silence.  
"Let me touch myself," he orders in a muted voice, breathing heavily as he digs his frangible fingernails into his palms.  
"Why do you deserve to touch yourself?" L asks, entirely composed.  
"Because I've..." Light has to think about his answer, "...have I been good?"  
"Oh, don't be such a fool, Dear," L sneers.  
"What?" Light whines. When has he misbehaved?  
"Stop playing dumb. You’re a smart boy. You know exactly what you've been doing."  
"What have I done‽" he questions, utterly clueless.  
"Keep your hands behind your back," his elder demands.  
Light obliges without complaint.  
"Good boy," L panegyrises.  
Light lets out a small whimper.  
"What was that for?" L queries, increasingly intrigued.  
"Please, if I’m good, can I...?" Light half-moans.  
"What if I keep you here all night, begging for release?" the detective questions back, his charcoal eyes brimming with an indiscernible emotion.  
"No, please don't," the brunet pleads, "I won't be able to take that!"  
"Well then..." L drawls, "I suppose, if you're _really_ good for me, then I might let you get yourself off."  
"I'll be good, I promise!" Light vows vehemently. "Please, tell me what to do to be good for you."  
"You sit there, and beg for me," his elder responds matter-of-factly.  
"But-”  
"Sit there," he interrupts, "and tell me what you want me to do to you."  
"Okay," his younger agrees as his breath quickens.  
"That means now, Light," L utters yet another order.  
"I want you to let me finish," Light murmurs, trying so hard not to break eye contact. The sense of luxuria surging through him is _unyielding_, it refuses to offer up so much as a single second of respite!  
"And how do you want me to do that?" his elder inquires, with allure apparent in his adulatory voice.  
"Stop it," the brunet boy protests. This is too much.  
"Stop what?" L replies with spurious innocence.  
"Stop saying these things to me!" Light raises his voice. This is _impure_!  
"You think I'll give you anything if you keep trying to order me around?" his elder spits coldly.  
"Ah," Light recognises his folly, "I'll be good from now on, I promise," he says contritely.  
"Are you sure you're telling me the truth?"  
"Yes, I'm telling..._oh_, please, stop teasing me already!"  
"Who's in charge here, Light?" L all but snarls, his gaze transfixing through his younger.  
"...You," Light replies reluctantly.  
"Good boy," his elder praises, making him shiver. "Indeed, I am in charge. So, stop being such a _brat_!"  
"I'm not a brat," the boy huffs, pouting.  
"Tell me, how do you feel? Stuck there with your arms behind your back, resisting the urge to touch yourself."  
"I hate it," Light answers candidly, refraining from hurling insults at that detective, though he would very much like to.  
"Oh, you poor little thing," L mocks. "You could if you wanted to, you're not tied up. Yet you're being so good, so obedient, all for me."  
"_Please_," Light whimpers.  
"Ah, I see now." At last, L realises. "It's praise you like, right?"  
"...Yes," his younger mutters in reply, biting the inside of his cheek.  
"How do you want me to praise you, Kitten?"  
"Ah, don't call me that!" he immediately objects to that horrid, demeaning nickname.  
"Oh, but, _Dear_, you're just like a cute, innocent, little kitten. Aren't you?"  
"N-no," he stammers, beyond discomfited.  
"Whatever you say, my kitten. Oh, look at you..." L coos, sending even more frissons through Light's body, "you're so hard, and I'm not even touching you. Are my words alone really affecting you this much?"  
"I just need to get off," the brunet whinges. "Please, let me..."  
"I've told you what to do if you want me to let you do that. _Beg_."  
"_Please_," he whines, sounding as desperate as he feels.  
"Good boy," L purrs. "Keep that up."  
"I want..." at this moment, Light discards every last morsel of pride and dignity he has left, "I want to touch myself, or...have you touch me."  
"You'd let me touch you?"  
"_Please_," is the only word he can get out.  
"Would you like that?" L draws nearer and whispers into his younger's ear, placing a hand on his thigh.  
"I want it so bad," Light says breathily. Words cannot describe how badly he’s _longing_ for this.  
His elder chuckles ever so slightly before pulling away. He stops when their faces mere inches apart.  
"You're so desperate right now," he muses, staring right into Light's ravenous eyes.  
"Please, give me more," Light exhorts.  
"Do you deserve more?"  
"Ryuzaki!" he whinges. "Stop this teasing. I'm being good for you, and I'm doing exactly as you ask, and-" his laboured breathing cuts him off.  
"I never asked you to stop talking," L utters, finding amusement in Light's impassioned pleas.  
"I-I want to touch myself so badly right now, and I can, but I'm not, I'm not! Am I not being good for you? As you've asked?" Halfway through uttering this sentence, Light grabs onto the back of L's neck again, and pulls their faces closer together, so their foreheads touch.  
"Oh, you need to learn, Light," the elder of the two hums, with a cruel edge to his voice.  
"What must I learn?" his younger questions perfervidly.  
"That I'm not as easy as you think," L growls, then pulls Light's hands away from the back of his neck and pins his bruised wrists to the carpeted floor. "I’m not going to let you get off tonight."  
"What do you mean‽" Light exclaims in dismay.  
"You need to learn, my _kitten_, to obey me. I love how you’re begging like this, but you fight whenever I try to please you."  
"I'm not fighting, I promise, I'm not!"  
"Stop squirming, compose yourself. Think back, before today you have never once obeyed me. That is going to change."  
"I-I'm doing as you say, I have been this entire time-"  
"Will you shut your mouth and listen to me!?” L loses his temper but immediately returns to his deceptive, honey-tongued demeanour. “Prior to today, you did nothing of the sort. You must be punished for your defiance, Light. For the next few days, I’m not going to let you relieve yourself of this tension."  
"N-no, please don't do this to me, I-"  
"You can get off again once you learn to do as I say, Kitten," he interrupts the stuttering teenager.  
"Why are you doing this to me‽"

L sighs in exasperation. This boy can be such hard work.

"Hush. Let me take you to bed, Pet. You’ll feel better with a night’s rest."  
Suddenly, L releases Light’s wrists and wraps his arms around his back. The younger of the two eagerly reciprocates, pulling L into a tight hug. The detective isn’t expecting this, but he doesn’t resist, for he knows how much Light craves these simple, sweet interactions he seems so starved of.  
“Consider this your reward,” the elder of the two says in a hushed voice, with an affectation of affection.  
“My reward for what?” Light murmurs with bated breath.  
“For being a good boy.”  
“I never want to be bad again.” He nestles up to L, resting his head upon his shoulder. “I promise I’ll be good from now on.”  
“You best not be making empty promises, Dear.”  
“I’m going to be so good for you,” he vows.  
“Do you want to know what I will do if I find out you’re lying to me, Light?”  
“Will you make me beg again?” he asks innocently.  
“Certainly," L replies, with a smirk tugging at his lips. "But that won’t be your punishment.”  
“Tell me what you’ll do.” Light’s breath hitches again. Stinging lust _plagues_ him.  
“I will hurt you.” L makes an empty threat, but a threat nonetheless.  
“Will you bite me again?”  
“If you misbehave, I might.”  
“Am I misbehaving right now?”  
“No, no," he assures his younger. "You’re being good.”  
“I like it when you tell me I’m being good…” Light admits.  
“You don’t receive much praise, do you?”  
“When I do, it’s always about how intelligent I am,” he sighs. He wants to impress people with more than just his intelligence.  
“I think you have such beautiful eyes,” L says truthfully.  
“Really?”  
“Really.”  
“Thank you," Light replies. The compliment makes his heart skip a beat.  
“Would you like to know what else I think?”  
“Tell me.” He digs his fingernails into L’s back, resisting the overwhelming urge to touch himself.  
“Ask nicely,” L orders in a magisterial, mellifluent voice.  
“Could you tell me, please?” his younger asks as politely as possible.  
“You’re such a good boy, begging for me like this. So servile, so deferential, you’re learning so quickly.”

L catches his younger mewl.

_Oh, this is child’s play_, he muses.

“You're adorable, Light,” he lionises.  
“Is that good?” the brunet queries.  
“Clueless child, of course, it’s good,” L scoffs.  
“I like being good,” the brunet decides.  
“Why is that?”  
“Because...you said, if I’m really good for you, then you’ll let me cum.”  
“That’s all you want?”  
“Want to be touched…” Light mumbles.  
“By me?”  
“Yes," he says with an ever so slight nod.  
“Where would you like me to touch you?”  
“Everywhere.”  
“Haven’t I already told you I’m not as easy as you think?”  
“_Please_, I can’t..." Light breathes, "I can’t focus on anything else, I have to…”  
“You will, eventually," L assures.  
“No," his defiant companion insists, "tonight.”  
“You don’t get to make orders, not whilst you’re with me.”  
“You can’t do this to me!" he complains.  
“I can, and I am," L replies with complete impassivity. "Learn how to control yourself better.”  
“Won’t you teach me?”  
“I'm trying to!” He starts to lose his temper again.  
“_Please_," the brunet begins, "I _beg_ of you, let me get off tonight.”  
“I have made my intentions very clear,” his elder responds, masking his inner contempt.  
“You’re so cruel!"  
“Come to bed, Light,” he sighs.  
L suddenly stands, startling his suspect, who stumbles a little. He would’ve fallen if he wasn’t clutching his companion. Swiftly, L grabs the back of Light’s upper thighs and picks him up.  
“Put me down,” Light retaliates with simple words, not giving any proper effort to fight him off.  
“It’s okay, you weigh next to nothing,” L attempts to sound reassuring, surreptitiously playing into Light’s insecurities.  
Light simply whines, ensconcing himself against L’s torso. The older of the two tries to ignore the venereal sensation of Light’s hard cock pressed against his abdomen. The thin fabric of their clothes stands as the only barrier as Light squirms. Maintaining poise, the detective carries his suspect into the bedroom, managing with not too much difficulty to remove the key from his back pocket to unlock the door, then lock it behind them, then turn on the light. Softly, L lowers Light down onto the duvet. Light, in arrant despair, assumes the fetal position. He whimpers, clutching the fabric below him as he watches his elder retrieve his laptop. Wordless and stony-faced, L crouches beside his younger and starts up the computer in his lap.

Light is annoyed. He hasn't received the attention he wants.

He tugs at their chain. L finds this gesture incredibly puerile. And so, he sighs, then makes eye contact with the boy beside him.  
“Please?” Light bats his sable eyelashes, coyly crossing his legs at the knees.  
“Go to sleep, Dearest.”  
“But I’m still in my clothes, and I have my makeup on,” he says in confusion.  
“Well, we best fix that,” L replies, sounding a tad exhausted.  
“I think we ought to.”  
Without further ado, the detective sets his laptop aside and stands up. Adopting Light’s gesture, he tugs at the chain in encouragement. After some reluctance, Light gets up, clasps his right wrist with his left hand, and steps over to his elder. He stares up at him with unadulterated hope and an inviting sparkle in his embellished eyes; the maquillage he wears is unable to conceal his roseate cheeks. L cannot help but stare right back.

Self-restraint becomes exceedingly difficult for him to hold onto when Light gives him those bedroom eyes.

Suppressing indelicate desires, he blinks, then briefly averts his eyes.  
“Light?”  
His younger's breath falters the second he hears his name spoken.

_How meretricious_, L muses, trying not to grimace.

Nonetheless, his plan must proceed. He raises his left hand and cups Light’s right cheek with it; the stark difference in temperature surprises him. Light immediately responds to the physical contact; he grabs the hand on his cheek as his eyes frantically study L’s countenance.  
“Calm yourself down, child,” the detective tuts.  
“Won’t you please let me…?” Light keeps begging, so hopeful.  
“Your predicament will fade with time. Believe me when I say that this is good, for you are learning how to control yourself better.”  
“It’s...for my own good?” he questions with a puzzled expression.  
“Exactly, Dear," L soothes. "Now, come on, you have to get ready for bed.”  
“You too,” his suspect urges.  
“If I must,” the elder of the two complies. Light has been bugging him about teeth-cleaning recently by going on hypocritical rants about how all the sugar he eats can't be healthy.  
“Will you sleep tonight?”  
“No,” he answers straightforwardly.  
“Please?” Light implores. He wants to be held again.  
“I'm far too busy. You know how much work I have to do.”  
“I worry about you, you know.”  
“Why?”  
“You need to sleep more, and you need to stop overworking yourself.”  
“I don’t overwork myself.”  
“But-”  
“Trust me," L interposes, speaking softly.  
With that, he takes his hand away from his younger’s cheek, but Light is quick to grab it again. He locks his fingers around L’s, holding his hand, expecting him to respond. Alas, he doesn’t, keeping his fingers outstretched. The brunet wrings his elder's palm in an attempt to encourage him, only for L to pry it away, then make for the bathroom. Disheartened, Light follows him inside.

L turns on the light and leans against the white tiles of the wall. His suspect takes a few more steps and leans against the sink, opening the cupboard overhead and pulling out L’s toothbrush and the toothpaste, which he hands to his elder, as is slowly becoming quotidian.

When L has brushed his teeth, and Light’s makeup is halfway removed, the elder of the two asks an unusual question.  
“Light?”  
“Hm?”  
“Does Amane-san know of your sexual preferences?”  
“What‽” Light is immediately taken aback. The _nerve_ of this man!  
“I have a theory," L drones, with a disparaging gaze that cuts right through his insecure companion.  
“You’re theorising about my sexuality?” Light furrows his brow. _His absolute gall!_  
“Yes,” L confirms, as expressionless as ever.  
“Why?”  
“Answer my question.”  
“No, she doesn't know,” the teenager continues.  
“From what I have observed, you do not seem to have a healthy relationship with her,” his elder comments, trying to undermine Light's confidence.  
“Of course, it’s a healthy relationship!” Light says firmly, acting as if he knows everything about this subject, though he's never taken his relationships seriously. In fact, he's hesitant even to use the term ‘relationship’. The air-headed girls he's been with he only agreed to date to appease his family, or because their presence benefitted him in some way. Most of them tired of him when he refused to have sex with them.  
“I would wager that you feel no attraction to her whatsoever,” L adds, confident in his deductive skills.  
“What would you know about relationships‽” Light scoffs.  
“Quite a bit, actually."  
“You feel..." he fails to stifle a laugh, "you feel attraction to people?”  
“Of course," L says with a lopsided smile. "I am only human.”  
“To women?” his younger inquires, trying not to pry.  
“No.”  
“Oh.”  
“You feel quite the same way, no?”  
“...I knew you’d figured me out a long time ago,” he breathes. Indeed, women have never interested him. Come to think of it, he doesn't even know why he's with Misa right now.  
“Thank you for confirming my theory.” L smirks.  
“You what?” his suspect speaks accidentally.  
“Thank you for confirming my theory,” the detective repeats.  
“Wait, run your theory by me again?”  
“I think you know exactly what my theory was. It's getting late; you shouldn't delay any longer, for you need sleep.”  
“Says the guy who accosted me the second he had me behind a locked door…” Light mutters under his breath.  
“Don’t be cheeky,” L cautions, louring in his suspect's direction.  
“I’m not being cheeky; it’s what happened! If that’s not robbing me of my valuable sleep, then I don’t know what is.”  
“Light, I'm being lenient now. I understand that you're frustrated, but we don’t have all night. Wipe off your makeup and brush your teeth, we should’ve long since retired.”  
“And whose fault is that, I wonder?”  
“If you don’t want me to ‘accost’ you, as you so aptly put it,” he derides, “then put up a proper fight. I thought you wanted this.”  
“You held me to the mattress and threatened me with death!” Light reminds him. “Why would I ever want that?”  
“You told me you liked that!” L raises his voice. “You let me kiss you, Light. You told me you liked that, too. You quite explicitly told me, not ten minutes ago, that you wanted me to touch you. Do you see how this looks to me, Dear?”  
“...Yes,” Light concedes defeat. He's being difficult. “Is it wrong?”  
“Is what wrong?”  
“How I feel about this.”  
“How _do_ you feel about this?”  
“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Honestly, I’ve no clue.”  
“You're confused,” L responds. “That much you must already know by now, for I have told you before.”  
“Yes, but do you think it’s wrong? That I’m confused, I mean.”  
“Truthfully, no. You are young; this is natural.”  
“How old are you?”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“How old are you, Ryuzaki?”  
“Much too old to be cavorting with you,” he says, shaking his head.  
“I admire your wisdom.”  
“You too shall possess such qualities given enough time.”  
“You, um…” Light pauses, thinking the phrase in his head over.  
“Yes?” L tries to force those words out.  
“No, nevermind.”  
“What is it?” he tries again. “You can tell me, Dear.”  
“Nothing. Drop it.”  
“Was it something I said?”  
“More like everything you say…”  
“What about my manner of speech?”  
“Shut up!” Light snaps. “Hearing your voice does not-” he cuts himself off before he can say something stupid.  
“...Does not what?”  
“Shut. Up.”  
“I don’t appreciate your tone.”  
“I don’t appreciate yours!”

This boy needs to be put in his place, L thinks. He really should show him. He wants to show him.

But, not yet. No, it's far too early for that. Refraining from taking any drastic and malapropos measures, he suppresses his ire and speaks in a calm voice.  
“We're approaching midnight and must rise at six.”  
“Which is why you should shut your mouth,” his suspect hisses superciliously.  
“I don’t take orders,” L repeats.  
“It was a suggestion, actually.”  
“Ask nicely, and maybe I will take your suggestion into account.”  
“Please, can you be quiet? You're rather distracting.”  
“See - that wasn’t difficult, was it?” he replies in a hushed voice, with a hint of sarcasm.  
The teenager responds to L’s snide question with a dirty look, then goes back to removing his makeup in silence. The brat is awfully tetchy tonight, L thinks. Belike because he hasn’t received that which he so badly wants. He's a mollycoddled child, and he mustn’t be used to punishment. He shall have to adapt; no doubt that will be tough for him. Oh, well, things are moving along nicely. L had not foreseen that he would have his suspect on his knees and begging so soon. It is almost pitiful how easy it is to manipulate him. It is almost pitiful, how easy it is for L to bend him to his will.

_Almost_.

Because L feels no pity for murderers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried while writing this chapter. Multiple times. AAAAAAAAAAA :(

The proceeding day goes smoothly.

Until their lunch break, that is.

While the rest of the Task Force enjoy their meals in the dining room, L and Light stand alone in the adjacent kitchen.  
“Light-kun must eat,” L states, his visage inexpressive.  
“I’m not hungry,” Light utters his default reply.  
“That matters not," the unwavering detective continues monotonously. "Light-kun must eat today.”  
“I don’t feel like it! I’m not hungry.”  
“You’re lying to me, Light.” L slips out of character, lowering his voice to eliminate any risk of being overheard.  
“I’m not lying," Light grumbles, knowing full well he's straying from the truth. How can he not be hungry? He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning.

L lets out a sigh. What a hassle this boy is.

Steadily, the detective moves in closer. His intimidated suspect is just about to take a defensive step backwards when he utters another order.  
“Stay put,” he says under his breath, reaching off to the side.  
“Why a-” 

As soon as Light opens his mouth to talk, a sickly-sweet taste assaults his tastebuds. His eyes widen a little as he realises his companion has slyly shoved two mini marshmallows into his mouth.

_What the hell is this?_

L’s damp fingertips brush across the tip of Light’s tongue and lips as he removes them. They trail down to the brunet’s chin, where they push, forcing his mouth shut.

“Chew,” L commands sotto voce.  
Light defies him, hiding the marshmallows under his own tongue, already feeling queasy from the saliva bedaubing his chin.

In silence, they stare each other down.

L understands he has to get aggressive. And so, he advances, backing Light into a counter, which the boy grabs onto for support.  
“Chew,” the detective repeats in an authoritative tone, though his voice is barely above a whisper.  
Light shakes his head. L edges closer, pushing their bodies together until their faces are scarcely an inch apart. Panic seizes ahold of Light, who pushes himself up onto the counter - creating unwanted friction as he does so - and scurries away until his back hits the dark-coloured tiles of the wall behind him.

L is unsure whether his suspect's prominent blush results from embarrassment, or if he is merely flustered.

“Chew and swallow. You must eat.”  
With this utterance, Light finds that L’s voice sounds..._gentler_ than usual. Still, he refuses to disobey his debasing disease's deceptive whispers, shaking his head yet again.__

_ __ _

_ __ _

Thusly, L decides he has no further choice. He can see no other way to get this petulant boy to comply.

Promptly, he leans in closer and snakes his arms around Light's back, pulling him away from the wall. Light, predictably, tries to resist, but finds that the only area he can reach is L’s back, with their torsos pressed together like this. As he squirms, L’s hot breath tickles his ear, making him blush so hard he can almost _feel_ the warmth in his cheeks. When that first kiss is planted on his neck, his eyes dart towards the half-open kitchen door - anyone could walk in! His heart feels like it’s about ready to pound right out of his chest; he’s certain L can feel his racing pulse when he licks at the skin atop his jugular, _sullying_ him. Beyond uncomfortable now, Light grabs onto the counter again - the resulting collision makes far too much noise for his liking - and sinks his teeth into his lower lip.

The hushed sound of L’s lips pecking at Light’s neck permeates the silent kitchen. Unmistakeable panic and familiar, aching arousal beset Light’s being.

_Oh no_. 

The brunet exhales harshly, subduing a whimper. In turn, L bites down into his delicate flesh, showing no mercy, and Light cannot hold back the resulting cry, though it’s not as loud as it could have been, as he’s pursed his lips. He cannot speak properly for the marshmallows under his tongue, so he writhes in an attempt to get L to stop. This seems to work, as the detective pulls away, then meets Light's eyes.  
“I'll stop if you swallow what I’ve given you,” he says, glowering.  
Light shakes his head yet again, utterly hellbent on not eating today; he has to punish himself for the way he acted last night! So _meek, so pitiful_, he _deserve_s every single pang of hunger. Besides, waking up one step closer to perfection is worth the agony.  
“For how long do you intend to disobey me?” the elder of the two raises his voice, threatening to become audible to those in the dining room.  
The teenager's already racing heart palpitates; even so, he refuses to relinquish control. Given recent events, he just wants to feel in control of his own body again. Although his body wants nothing more than to be satisfied, he won’t let himself give in to these salacious desires. Although his stomach aches and begs him to gorge himself on every miniature morsel of food he can get his hands on, he won’t let himself give in to these shameful desires.  
“So, you were lying to me last night, after all," L flouts. "I think that warrants punishment.”  
Light moves the sticky sweets to the inside of his cheek so he can mutter a reply. “Punish me all you like."  
“Right now? Right here?”  
“I deserve it,” he spits.  
“How would you like me to punish you?” the detective inquires charily. This isn't like Light.  
“Let me starve,” the teenager mumbles.  
“You really must eat,” L says, sincerely solicitous. "You've already starved for thirty hours. I can't allow this any longer. You’re going to kill yourself at this rate."  
“I refuse to eat," Light insists shakily. "I don't deserve to."  
“I'll keep you here until you swallow what's in your mouth," L conveys, spitting venom. "Do you really want everyone to walk in and see you like this?”

Light bites his tongue.

“Especially your father,” L adds. “What would he think if he saw you like this?” His voice fades back to a whisper. “Sat here in my embrace...I can feel how hard you are, you know. I’m surprised you still have blood left in your cheeks.”  
“Stop it,” Light hisses.  
“We’ve been here for a good while, actually. It is quite fortunate that nobody has walked in to see what we’re up to yet.”  
Light ponders over the idea for a little while, then hesitantly chews the marshmallows in his mouth, acting out against his domineering disorder. The nauseating taste of pure sugar dominates his mouth, so he quickly swallows the sweets, breaking his fast.

Instantly, guilt consumes him.

To make sure he isn’t faking, L forces Light’s mouth open with two limber fingers.  
“Ah!” Light scolds himself after realising that he’s made a noise that those in the adjacent room can undoubtedly hear.  
When it’s apparent that the boy has swallowed, L removes his fingers and his younger presses his lips together once again.  
“Good boy,” L whispers.  
A twinge of excitement runs through Light at even the simplest form of praise. He shudders.  
“I can’t go back to work in this state…” he murmurs.  
“I know, Dear.”  
“Well, what do you propose we do about this?”  
“Would you like for me to take you back to our rooms?”  
“Some privacy would be nice,” he opines.  
“I'll assume that’s a yes, then. Wrap your legs around me,” L demands.  
“What, why‽” his younger blurts out.  
“Do as you’re told.”  
He delays only for a few seconds, then acquiesces, wrapping his legs around the detective’s hips. L picks him up, and he folds his arms around his elder’s back so he won’t fall.  
“What are you doing‽” he whisper-shouts.

L doesn't respond.

Though Light had thought it impossible, his cheeks get even hotter as L carries him into the dining room, where they meet with the Task Force.

All eyes are on them.

“Ryuzaki, what are you doing with my son!?”  
“Forgive me, Yagami-san," L drawls. "Light-kun has fallen ill and is therefore unable to walk, so I took the liberty of carrying him. He must rest.”  
With sheer shock plastered across his visage, Souichirou stands up from his chair and hurriedly walks over to his son.  
“Is it serious?" he asks vehemently. "Should I call my wife? He does look very hot…”  
“Tou-san,” Light takes his mouth away from L’s shoulder to speak in a voice noticeably breathy with desire and shaky with embarrassment, “I’ll be fine. It's just muscle fatigue. Ryuzaki and Watari will take good care of me.”  
“If you’re unable to walk, it must be serious!" his overbearing father exclaims. "Ryuzaki, are you sure he doesn’t need to be in the hospital right now?”  
“I am positive, Yagami-san," L drones in response. "Light-kun shall surely recover within the next twenty-four hours.”  
“What’s the diagnosis?” Aizawa questions.  
“I am currently uncertain, but Watari will be sure to let you know as soon as possible.”  
“A sudden illness,” the chief muses. “How can we be sure it’s not Kira?”

The rest of the Task Force gasp.

“Chief, you gotta be kidding!” Matsuda, inevitably, chimes in.  
“I am almost 99% certain that this is not Kira's doing," L sighs. "Now, if you will please excuse us, rest is vital for Light-kun’s recovery.”  
Not wanting to dig himself further into an inescapable hole, L takes his leave, ignoring his wittering colleagues worried words, with a flustered and uncomfortably aroused Light still clinging to him. As they leave the room, a voice calls out:  
“Get well soon, Light-kun!”  
Neither L nor Light bother responding to Matsuda.

As L carries him down the stairs and into the main hall, Light finally speaks up.  
“You humiliated me like that on purpose, didn’t you?”  
“It was necessary,” L responds, inexplicably impassive.  
Light considers making a snarky comment, but decides against it, suppressing the urge to punch L in the face. He emits a deep sigh, resting his head against L’s shoulder now they're alone again, and closes his eyes. Briefly, he wonders why he’s done this but ends up putting it down to how worked up he is. Of course, he craves attention from another man right now, he thinks, it’s only natural.

L tries his hardest to pay Light no heed, even as sharp fingernails dig into his back and a heavy head leans against his shoulder. He grabs a bag of sweets beside his computer, for he needs to remove the taste of makeup from his tongue. With his babe in arms, he heads for the lift.

Once inside the lift, L releases Light from his hold, letting him stand. Light immediately turns around to face a wall.  
“I am so unbelievably embarrassed,” he announces as a spell of lightheadedness blotches his vision.  
“You brought it upon yourself,” L replies through mouthfuls of chocolate.  
“Had you not denied me release last night then I wouldn't be so worked up right now!”  
“Light, turn around.”  
“Why‽”  
“Either turn around of your own accord, or I'll force you."  
“I’m not turning around. Don’t want to look at your stupid face,” Light mutters, lowering his voice with that second sentence.  
L snarls under his breath in a language Light cannot understand. He gets the familiar feeling he's just been insulted. Suddenly, a hand grabs his shoulder, and he flinches, before he finds himself pinned against the wall.

He’s fed up of this by now.

“Can you not just keep your hand-”  
Light is interrupted by L’s mouth crashing against his own. Momentarily, he thinks about biting that man's lips off to give him a taste of his own medicine but concludes that he probably shouldn’t, for he might bite back just as hard. Caving in, the teenager closes his eyes and kisses back, yet again unable to resist the salacity provoked inside. Surprised by Light’s fervour, L licks at his bottom lip, wanting to gain access. However, it soon becomes apparent to him that Light either doesn’t understand or doesn’t want L’s tongue in his mouth; L reckons it’s the former, as Light is still so obviously untrained in the art of kissing.

_No matter_, L thinks, _I'll train him_. 

The detective forces his tongue into his suspect's mouth, and the younger of the two has barely any time to react before he notices that something else, something other than human flesh, has been slipped inside. Something overly saccharine and undoubtedly calorific. L breaks the kiss and pulls away with a smirk upon his face.

It was a trap, Light realises. But a ploy to force him to eat again.

He easily discerns the distinctive taste of milk chocolate. Feeling like he might be sick, he throws a hand over his mouth.

_Revolting!_

“You know what I want you to do, Light.”  
Light shakes his head again. He’s not eating any more, especially not something this rich in fat and sugar. As the sweet is much too big to place under his tongue comfortably, he's forced to keep situated atop his tongue, resting on his tastebuds. He feels dizzy, though he’s not sure whether it’s the result of hunger, disgust, or arousal.  
“I'll add one more day to your punishment if you don’t eat," L threatens. "Is that really what you want? To be sexually unfulfilled for another four days?”  
In disbelief, his younger holds four fingers up.  
“One day for each time you have dug your stubborn little heels into the ground and disobeyed my orders,” the detective growls, with discernible disdain in his eyes.  
The brunet sighs and fixes his eyes upon the ground, remembering last night. He'd made a stupid, spontaneous promise whilst licentiousness clouded his mind.  
“Make your decision, Light.”  
Light looks up when L's voice catches his ear.  
“You either eat what I’ve given you, or you go an extra day without getting off. I beseech you to have a nice, long think about which you would prefer.”  
Light doesn't have to ponder over it for very long. They reach their floor, and the lift’s doors open. The younger of the two takes a fleeting glance outside, then takes his hand away from his mouth so L can see him chew. It’s chocolate-coated fudge that L’s given him, he realises. So fattening and odious, how the hell can L eat this all the time and still look so good‽ It's not fair at all, Light feels like he’ll gain weight from the mere sight of fudge. He chews until the confectionery is a thick liquid, then swallows.  
“Open your mouth.”  
He does as he’s told, proving to L that he’s swallowed.  
“See, you can be good for me," the detective croons. "You are so needlessly stubborn.”  
“You know I have a problem, Ryuzaki,” Light spits his words, glaring coldly.  
L stares for several seconds, unable to think up a witty response for once. Then, he tugs at the chain, which startles his younger, and hastily walks out of the lift. Light follows behind, trying to keep up with his elder, who uses the chain as one would a dog's lyam, keeping his suspect at arm’s length. Light feels somewhat dehumanised, for he hadn't envisaged that L would take his nickname of “Pet” literally. Discouraged and diffident, he bows his head, surmising that he really is worthless and _no longer worthy of human respect._

“Ryuzaki?” Light begins when they're in their sitting room.  
L doesn’t even send a glance in his direction. He unlocks the door to their bedroom and rushes inside, startling Light by how fast he moves.  
“Um,” Light mutters, whilst being dragged across the room.  
Again, the teenager receives no acknowledgement. They stop near the bedside, and the ebon-haired detective crouches down to retrieve his laptop from under the bed.  
“I-I think I can go back to work now, my..._condition_ has mostly diminished.”  
“Light-kun is ill, remember.”  
For a second, Light is taken aback. Seldom does L refer to him in the third person when they’re alone.

_He must be mad at me_, the teenager concludes. 

L, with his laptop in one hand and his sweets in the other, stands upright, then makes for the sitting room. Light notices that not only is he avoiding conversation, but eye contact, too. He must be really, _really_ mad. He's never done this before. The brunet hangs his head and follows his elder into the sitting room, then takes a seat next to him on the settee.

Whilst L starts up his laptop, Light twiddles his thumbs. He has to find a way to get rid of the filth in his stomach. The hollow promise made last weekend doesn’t matter, he knew from the second he made it that he’d break it, given time.

At this point, he’s too far gone.

Just a few more minutes, and then he’ll ask. It’ll seem suspicious if he asks right away, L will know exactly what he wants to do. He wants it all gone as soon as humanly possible; he’s eaten far too much, he’ll definitely gain weight if he doesn’t bring it back up! Thus, he takes a deep breath, giving himself twenty minutes at most. Any longer and he fears his body will have absorbed too many calories, so there'll be no point in bringing it back up. He still can’t believe he made concessions and agreed to eat! Oh, well, it’ll be alright once he purges, then he won’t have anything left inside, and he can regain at least some of the control he feels he’s lost to L. He’ll be empty and pure again, in complete control. All he need do is wait.

And wait, he does, with a watchful eye on the clock.

Thirteen minutes pass before the ever-escalating guilt becomes unbearable. L permits his suspect to use the bathroom, though is still giving him the silent treatment. Light positions the chain, so it’s passing through the gap under the bathroom door, then shuts and locks the door behind him. With perfectly practised quiet footsteps, he strides forward, then sinks to his knees. Taking a few deep breaths, he studies his knuckles. Across them lie old scars and a few marks from last weekend that are near-healed. He must be careful not to worsen them. He hasn't much to get rid of, so he shouldn't bleed. Delaying no longer, he leans over the toilet, opens his mouth, then slips his right index and middle fingers inside, shoving them as deep into his throat as possible. From the second they hit his gag reflex, a twisted feeling of euphoria bubbles within.

How he’s missed this.

Gagging for the first time, he habitually sinks his teeth into his knuckles, but soon realises his mistake and lets his mouth hang open. He must avoid detection, and that means no biting. It takes a good ten seconds of stimulating his gag reflex before anything comes up - it's a small amount, acidic tasting, brownish, and easily regurgitated. That's his first victory of the day. Careful not to make any loud noises, he continues, his vision blurring as his eyes water and more vomit comes up, which hits the back of his decaying teeth before dripping into the water below. His fingers will be filthy by the end of this, but he knows that it’s all worth it, for he will have atoned for his deplorable sins. The third time he regurgitates, he lets out a choked cry as his tear-brimmed eyes squeeze shut. Panic sets in as his heart races, and his eyes open as caustic ejecta burns his flesh. Undeterred, he doesn't give up, for his stomach isn’t yet empty. Being empty feels so lovely to him, for emptiness means he has power.

When he's empty, he's well on his way to perfection. Emptiness is comforting, for _emptiness is purity._

With every bit of filth he rids himself of, he feels more and more elated, more and more in control. L controls nothing about this; he never has, never can, and never will. This is something only Light can control. Though he pules pathetically, he won’t stop. He _will_ cleanse himself of this atrocious guilt! After all, it's only natural to want to rid oneself of unwanted feelings, isn't it? Once all the confectionery comes up, pure acid fills his mouth, burning him. This is the worst part.

But, for him, temporary agony is worth feeling and looking so damn good.

The pain stings and the taste is far from pleasant, so he slams his eyes shut and tries to get it over with. This is the final bit of filth; it’s all that prevents him from reaching his goals, all that stands between him and perfection. Yellowish liquid runs down his fingers, singing his tongue until it all comes to a halt. He opens his eyes again, as that twisted euphoria burns stronger than ever. No matter how much he probes at his gag reflex, no matter how deep he jams his fingers into his throat, nothing else comes up. He’s left gagging on air.

Complacent, he removes his saliva and vomit soaked fingers from his mouth, and smiles to himself. He’s done it. Yet again.

Now, for the cleanup.

With some toilet roll, he wipes the fluid off of his fingers, then throws the dirtied paper in with his vomit. Finding little trace of what he’s done on his knuckles satisfies him further. Although having his mouth wide open did let a lot more noise escape, it was a necessary sacrifice, since L checks his knuckles every time he leaves the bathroom. He stands, takes a moment to recover from the dizziness that overcomes him, then flushes everything away. He doesn’t think he spent too long in here. As he steps over to the sink, he sniffs, ridding himself of the snot that emerges from his nostril. After turning the tap on, he slathers his hands in a copious amount of soap, for he doesn't want to chance smelling like puke. When he’s rinsed and dried his hands, he gazes into the mirror. His eyes are an angry red, and his makeup is smudged, but that's no surprise. Other than these, he doesn’t notice any obvious indicators. Well, he thinks he best fix his makeup; the bloodshot eyes will disappear with time. He opens the cupboard overhead, then grabs a makeup wipe and gets to work. Black makeup is always the hardest to wipe off; he’s going to have to spend a lot longer in here than initially planned. He wonders whether or not he should brush his teeth. No, L will definitely hear that, and he’ll figure everything out. Such a small amount of acid isn’t going to damage his teeth, Light thinks. He doesn’t purge often enough to cause himself severe damage, he thinks, not anymore. There was a time, just before his confinement, when he did it at least once a day, and here he is: mostly unharmed and healthy enough. He once did it five times in the space of a few hours, and here he is: mostly unharmed, healthy enough, and thinner than he’s ever been before.  
“Light?”  
He jumps at the sound of his name, being so rudely pulled from his obsessive thoughts. Before replying, he clears his sore throat.  
“Yes?”  
“Are you quite alright?”  
“Yeah, I’m fine.”  
“What are you doing in there?”  
“Just fixing my makeup, I’ll be out in a minute!”  
L doesn't reply. Light sighs deeply, still feeling on edge. That detective mustn’t suspect anything. Hell knows what’ll happen if he finds out.

After meticulously reapplying his eye makeup, the whites of Light’s eyes are still slightly red. Though he’s looked for eye drops in the cupboard, he can't find any. He hopes L won’t notice. Drawing in another deep breath, he holds his head high as he unlocks the bathroom door. When he opens the door, he comes face to face with L. With ersatz aplomb, he smiles at his elder. Unsurprisingly, L doesn’t smile back. Instead, he leers at Light with gelid grey eyes, examining every facial feature. It doesn't take him long to notice the bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks.  
“Show me your knuckles.”  
Light proudly presents L with the backs of his hands, which are indeed free of blood. But L is far from stupid; he can see the fuchsia hue upon them as clear as day.  
“You’ve broken your promise,” he says confidently, letting go of his younger's hands.  
“What?” Light questions, imitating innocence.  
“You promised me you would stop purging. Surely, you can remember that much?”  
“I haven’t purged,” he denies, trying to mask the terror within by affecting a guileless, jejune expression.  
“You lying little _brat_!” L sneers.  
“I'm not lying, I swear to you," his younger pledges. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."  
“Honestly, Light, do you take me for a fool?”  
The teenager shakes his head. “Not at all.”  
“One more day.”  
“That’s ridiculous! I haven’t done anything to deserve it!” he spits.  
“I trusted you," L says, knitting his brow in false benevolence.  
“I promise you I’m not lying," his younger insists. "You’ve seen my knuckles. Had I done anything, they would be bleeding by now. Believe me.”  
“More empty promises?” the detective questions.  
“They’re not empty!" his suspect exclaims. "I’m telling the truth. You _know_ I am.”  
“I had faith in you, Light," L repeats. "What do you think you deserve for betraying my trust?”  
Light's heart sinks, ending up amongst his viscera. “Have you not already assigned me a punishment?”   
“I rather think you deserve something more.”

L takes a few seconds to think, and then, for the third time today, Light finds himself backed against a wall.

“Don’t touch me,” he says through gritted teeth as L leans in too close.  
“Don’t tell me what to do,” L growls back, slipping a hand up Light’s dove-grey t-shirt.  
The teenager winces at the coldness of the detective’s fingers against his bare skin. With chagrin, he grabs L’s wrist and forces his hand away.  
“Please, can you keep your hands to yourself?” Light asks as politely as he can.  
“I can, yes," his elder hums. "But I don’t think I will.”  
He reaches up and slowly runs his fingertips along Light's jawline, stopping to lift his chin.  
“Stop this,” Light says firmly as he, again, pushes L’s hand away.  
He’s not being coy this time around, and L knows it. But, having broken a promise, this punishment is justified, in L’s eyes. Ignoring his younger's request, he slips his hand up his shirt again.  
“Stop touching me!” Light very nearly yells, whilst breaking his elder's grip yet again.  
“Were you not begging for this last night?”  
“Leave me alone. I don’t want this!”  
“You do," L scoffs. "You and I both know you do.”  
“All I want is for you to stop pawing at me! Get it through your head already!”  
“Would you prefer my lips?”  
“No.”  
By the time Light responds, L is already planting kisses on the more sensitive side of his neck. The brunet juts his shoulder up in resistance and shoves L aside, then scampers as far away from him as he can get.

The baleful look in those louring grey eyes frightens Light.

He gulps as the detective hastens towards him, and takes a nervous step backwards. Before he has any time to react, L tackles him to the floor, grabs the right side of his face, and kisses him roughly. Light tries to vocalise his unwillingness, though lips muffle the word. He pushes his hands against L’s chest, trying his hardest to fight him off, but he just doesn’t budge. Perturbation floods Light's being; he _hears_ his heart pounding in his chest as he thinks _what if L doesn’t hold back this time_? He doesn't want it to be like this; he’s nowhere near ready for that! Remembering an earlier thought, he determines there’s no further choice, and sinks his teeth deep into L’s lower lip, à son corps défendant. As he groans into his younger's mouth, L’s eyes shoot open. Quickly, he pulls away, glaring at the boy below him with a combination of contempt and disbelief. Light glares right back with the same amount of contempt filling his widened umber-coloured eyes.  
“You are very, very lucky I can control myself,” L growls.  
Light scarcely has a chance to comprehend these words before his elder suddenly takes to his feet. He's not given an opportunity to regain his footing, finding himself dragged across the floor due to the chain as his elder rushes across the room. The carpet scratches Light's cheek as L opens the bathroom door, flounces inside, then slams it shut and locks it behind him.

Not having the strength to sit up, the teenager resigns himself to his emotions. He shouldn’t have bothered redoing his makeup; these tears are only going to ruin it again.

L isn’t sure how much time has passed by the time his rage whittles down into mere aggravation.

Having regained his poise, he runs a hand through his hair, breathing deeply. Had he not locked himself away, he fears he might have taken this out on his surroundings. It's best to suppress these types of feelings. Calmly, he turns around to unlock the door. Soon, he finds that something is preventing him from opening it fully. Bemused by this, he only just manages to slip through the gap.

Oh, that’s what it is. Or, rather, who it is.

Light looks a slovenly mess, with droplets of mascara smeared across his cheeks. He must have been weeping, though L hadn't heard anything. He wonders if his younger has practice concealing the sound. Carefully, he takes a step forward, then crouches beside the boy. He attempts to take his younger’s tremulous hands into his, but Light almost instantly pulls them away.  
“You are frightened of me,” L thinks out loud, affecting a saddened look.  
In reply, Light simply gulps, staring up at his elder with wide eyes.  
“Don’t be frightened of me, please.”  
This contrite tone of voice unnerves the brunet even further. This doesn’t seem like L at all.  
“Come on, stand up.”  
L offers Light his hands, which he hesitantly takes, then they both stand upright. Though, the teenager is still very wary; L can tell just from the way he's shaking so violently. A soon as he attempts to snake an arm around Light’s back, he's met with resistance; on the defence, Light backs away.  
“It’s okay,” L soothes, puzzled by his suspect's discomposure. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
Ah, déjà vu. Light’s heard that before. Even though L told the truth that night, Light’s no longer so sure of his sincerity. Again, L tries to put an arm around his younger’s back, but Light, in turn, shies away, seeming uncharacteristically anxious.  
“Trust me, Light,” the detective urges. “You don't need to be frightened. I'll never hurt you.”  
“You just did.” Light’s voice quivers as much as his hands.  
“I’m sorry,” L replies, making himself sound every bit as upset. “I’m so sorry. Believe me, I truly am.”  
Light simply shakes his head in response. He doesn’t think he can ever trust L.  
“Please, have some faith in me, as I have faith in you. I promise I won’t hurt you. You know how much I believe in keeping promises, don't you?”  
He takes those words into account, biting his tongue to prevent himself from choking up. He mustn't show weakness, especially not in front of those he knows he must impress. This third time, he doesn’t resist as L puts his arm around his back, although he does put himself on his guard, should anything lubricious be attempted. To his surprise, L leads him towards the bed. Light’s steps are stiff and lacking fluidity, for he’s not sure he likes where this is going. He’s probably going to be held down there as _that roué_ has his lickerish way with him. With this thought, he scutters away, breaking L’s hold. In an unwonted state of uneasiness, he hyperventilates once more. Sensing Light’s fear, L speaks up.  
“Sit,” he orders, trying to sound as gentle and encouraging as he can as he gestures towards the bed.  
Obstinately, Light shakes his head, subconsciously crossing his arms over his abdomen. These unbidden emotions are suffocating him, they're starving his lungs of air just to _taunt_ him.  
“Please, sit,” L repeats. “We need to talk.”  
“We can talk like this.” Light tries to sound assertive, but his trembling voice makes it painfully evident he's struggling to contain his tears.  
“No, we can’t. You need to relax so you can calm down.”  
“'Calm down'?” he scoffs. “What, because you think I’m mad‽ Because you reckon I’m a crazed mass murderer‽”  
“Dear, you would understand if you could see yourself,” L says urgently. “You are quite clearly in severe distress.”  
“I’m not mad!” Light insists. He has to be sound of mind.  
“I never alleged that you were.”  
“I’m okay.”  
“Come here.” L stands with open arms, beckoning for Light to come nearer. “Come here. You’re not okay.”  
Light whimpers in disquietude as he feels wetness against his rufescent cheeks. Kind words and the promise of comfort are so hard for him to resist. Though L sounds so genuine, Light knows he shouldn’t trust him, for he will only end up defiled and disconcerted.  
“Please?”  
It's not like L to be this reverent. Perhaps he _is_ being sincere.  
“Promise you won’t hurt me,” the younger of the two weeps.  
“I swear to you.”  
“If you hurt me, I will reveal your identity.”

This threat alone makes L raise the chance of Light being Kira to 7%.

“Blackmail won't get you anywhere, Dear. I have no desire to harm you.”  
Light steps forward timidly, walking right into L’s arms. The hands on his shoulders soon force him to take a seat. Ambivalence rages within as his elder sits beside him. He often forgets that L is capable of sitting normally.  
“Can I hold you?” L inquires.  
“Please do,” Light replies through tears.  
With faux amity and concern, L pulls his younger closer, wrapping his arms around his waist. Pursuing succour, Light rests his head against the detective’s shoulder, letting out another sigh.  
“Am I the unfortunate cause of your dolour?” L questions disingenuously.  
“Yes,” Light answers honestly.  
“I’m so sorry, Dear," the detective apologises with silvery tones. "What did I do to upset you?”  
“Don’t touch me when I tell you not to.” Light doesn't even attempt to wipe away his tears.  
“I'm sorry,” his elder repeats, making himself sound utterly _dejected_, “I was saddened and..._angered_ by your actions. I know it was wrong for me to touch you like that. You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”  
“Why can’t you just let me erase my guilt?” Light murmurs. “It makes me feel so much better.”  
“You’re hurting yourself, Light. I don’t want to let that happen.”  
“It only hurts a bit,” he says dismissively.  
“Do you know what can happen to you if you keep doing this?”  
“Of course I know what _can_ happen. But nothing _has_ happened, so, I’m fine.”  
“Don’t think that way, Dear.”  
“Why shouldn’t I?”  
“It's completely delusional,” L all but sneers, holding back a laugh. “Nothing has happened _yet_, you mean. Things are only getting worse for you, aren't they?” he asks, modulating his voice once again.  
“I'm not mad,” the teenager repeats as if he's trying to convince himself of this. “You just don't understand how I feel. And instead of trying to understand, you hurt me just because you think what I'm doing is wrong.”  
“Oh, Darling, I'm sorry,” L consoles, mollifying his younger. “I’m so sorry for earlier; I lost my composure. It won’t happen again.”  
“I just-” a bout of sobs interrupts the teenager.  
“Oh, this is all my fault...”  
L entwines his left hand among Light’s hair, letting pale fingers stroke soft locks. Light weeps into his elder’s shoulder, smearing his white shirt with tears and streaks of makeup. He doesn’t know what's come over him, but he’ll blame it on L, for he’s the one who caused these horrid feelings. Light’s never felt so scared, not since...well, not since the incident that marked the end of his confinement. And yet, he remains in the culprit’s arms, all the while knowing he should deny these advances.  
“I want-” he blurts, interrupted by his own sobs.  
“Tell me what you want,” L commands gently.  
“I just want you to listen to me,” Light says shakily, trying to get his breathing under control.  
“Anything for you.”  
“When I say no, it means no. Listen to me.”  
“Of course, Dear. I always listen to you.”  
“This isn’t the first time you've ignored me. Remember that night after our fight? You didn’t stop until I yelled at you.”  
“But that was one occasion,” L declares, downplaying his deplorable actions.  
“Well, yes, but...”  
“I’m not a criminal, Light. I won’t do anything to you without your consent.”  
“I hope you’re telling me the truth,” Light sighs, his voice quaving. He doesn't know what L is capable of.  
“I never lie,” L lies. “Especially not to you, Darling.”  
“That’s hard to believe.” Light gives a half-suppressed laugh.  
“Perhaps you lie too much,” his elder suggests.  
“You think so?”  
“No, no, just food for thought, I’m being silly.”  
“You know what I meant to tell you last night?”  
“If you have not yet told me then how can I know?” he chuckles.  
“You have a really nice voice,” Light confesses.  
“Oh, Dear, you're much too kind,” L praises, smirking.  
“It’s the truth.”  
“Your hair is very soft,” he returns the compliment. “It's easy to run my fingers through.”  
“I take care of it,” the brunet asserts.  
“I can tell.”  
“I’ve decided something,” he states suddenly.  
“Care to elaborate for me?” L pushes for information.  
“I don’t hate this.”  
“What’s ‘this’?”  
“You, holding me...your hand in my hair. It's actually quite comforting.”  
“I know, Dear. Your tears stopped a while ago.”  
“Can we do this more often?”  
“We don't do this often enough for you?”  
“I just prefer this to your teasing.”  
“My teasing?” he asks, feigning ignorance.  
“You know what I mean,” Light says, almost too fast to catch. “The...indecent things you do to me.”  
“I don’t mean to tease you, Dear,” the detective claims.  
“Huh?” his addled younger babbles. “Then...what _is_ your intent?"  
“Right now, my only intent is to offer you some much-needed reassurance and positive attention.”  
“I…” he stutters, thinking his words over, “appreciate it more than you think. Oh, I don’t know why I genuinely thought you were going to hurt me.”  
“You were in distress, Darling. And that's entirely my fault," L takes the blame, trying to instil guilt. “I didn’t respect your boundaries.”  
“But you promise to from now on?”  
“I promise. And, Light, can you promise me something, too?”  
“Anything.”  
“Please, don’t make yourself sick. I hate to see you in pain.”  
“...It'll be hard to resist.”  
“Do you know how beautiful you are?”  
“Evidently not.” A mordacious laugh escapes Light’s lips.  
“How long is it going to take me to convince you that you are downright gorgeous?” his elder inquires.  
“Even if you do manage to convince me of my apparent beauty, you can never convince me to give up the little bit of self-control that I have.”  
“There are other ways to gain self-control, my dear. It's not necessary to starve yourself or make yourself sick.”  
“Pray tell,” the younger of the two says with ample amusement.  
“Abstaining from onanism is a good alternate. I was pleased with you last night,” L panegyrises, “you were being so good for me, always keeping your hands where I could see them.”  
“You think..._it_,” Light waters down his words for decency's sake, “demonstrates a lack of self-control?”  
“Not necessarily.”  
“I wouldn’t do that in front of you, anyway.”  
“Because you’re shy?” the detective queries.  
“Because I don’t want to,” the teenager answers.  
“Of course. I respect that," L declares. "I respect _you_.”  
“I respect you, too." Light smiles.  
“I can’t ever think why,” his elder laughs.  
“I’ve always admired you,” Light reveals.  
“You’re too kind, giving me all these compliments after what I’ve just done…”  
“Shut up about what happened earlier,” he demands. “I want to forget it for now.”  
“Alright.”  
“Lay down with me.”  
“You’d like that?”  
“I would.”  
“As you wish.”  
Slowly, with his younger held close, L lies on his left side. Soon, an arm snakes around Light’s back and fingers interweave with his locks. He sighs deeply, and the breath catches in his throat. This is nice; it’s so much better than L’s usual advances. He decides that, if these gentle, soothing behaviours persist, he will accept the more lecherous, improper behaviours with good grace. After all, they usually bring him temporary pleasure, if nothing else. Nevermind the resulting frustration and pain.

Though the sensible part of him knows he shouldn’t give L’s statements any credence, the rest of him chooses to believe these comforting lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to punch L right in the fucking face and so should you


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wish the English language had more punctuation...
> 
> I just wanna copy and paste love points :(

L makes sleeping a rare luxury, what with the workload he undertakes.

For that reason, tonight is different, as he’s finally attempting to get some shut-eye after three days of going without.

So, he is particularly vexed when, as he’s just starting to doze off, a certain boy to his right wants his attention.  
“Ryuzaki?” Light initiates conversation in a voice barely audible. “Are you awake?”  
L pries open his heavy eyelids. “Yes?”  
“Speak to me,” the brunet enjoins breathily.  
“What do you want to talk about?” the detective questions warily, peering at his younger.  
“Tonight is the last night...right?”

_Oh_. L understands now.

“The last night of your punishment, yes.”  
“C-can you please shorten it?” Light stammers. “Just by one day?”  
“Surely you can wait until dawn?”  
“I’m...you know...” he insinuates, trying to hold onto at least some degree of refinement.  
The detective bites back a sneer. “No, I don’t know.”  
“I’m so horny,” his younger confesses.  
“Hands where I can see them,” L requests after a sigh of frustration.  
“Of course.”  
L doesn’t expect his younger to close the distance between them with an amatory embrace. Their arms are soon around each other’s backs, and the brunet decides he'd like to be a little bold. He wraps both his lower limbs around L’s right leg, pressing his clothed cock against his elder’s thigh.  
“Is this good enough for you?” His voice is louder this time, and more malapert than it ought to be.  
“You certainly weren’t lying...” L muses, mirthless.  
“Please, let me get off?” his younger entreats enthusiastically.  
“Tomorrow,” L says coldly, showing no magnanimity.  
“Tonight,” his impassioned imp of a suspect insists. “I need it.”  
The detective almost laughs at how little restraint his companion possesses. “Have some self-control!”  
“You can feel how hard I am...” Light all but purrs, squirming ever so slightly.  
“Your point is?” L says, seeming entirely unaffected by this attempt at seduction.  
“You can touch me if you want.”  
“I won’t.”  
“_Please_?”  
“Go to sleep, Pet. The wait won’t be long.”  
“I can’t sleep. Not like this.”  
“And what do you want me to do about that?”  
“Just let me cum,” Light pleads. “Then I’ll be able to sleep.”  
“Dear, be good for me. I know you can.”

With that request, L catches Light’s cock twitch, and it affects him more than he’d like it to.

“I’ll be really good,” the brunet whines. “What must I do?”  
“Calm yourself down and get some sleep,” L urges. “Tomorrow is not far away.”  
“I _can’t_. Not like this.”  
“Take your mind off it. Talk to me about something else, Dear.”  
“I can’t think about anything else...”  
“What were you thinking about in the first place, anyway?”

As soon as this question catches his ear, dread bedevils Light's being.

“You’ll be mad if I tell you,” he mumbles as his heart rate quickens. _Don't make me say it_.  
“I won’t, I promise,” his elder ensures.  
“...Do I have to be honest?”  
“Good boys are honest.”  
“I want to be good for you,” Light breathes.  
“Then answer my question.”  
“Fine…” he concedes defeat. “I was thinking about you.”  
“Me?” L sounds so very _honoured_.  
Light pouts to himself. “Yes, you. Who else?”  
“What makes you like me so much?”  
“I don’t like you,” he's quick to deny.  
“...But thinking about me arouses you?” L asks with slight mirth.  
“Thinking about the things you’ve done to me does,” his younger clarifies.  
“What things?” the detective inquires, freely fanning frustration’s fierce flames.  
“Well, you...kissing my neck, and saying…” Light hesitates, having to think up a fitting, yet delicate, word, “..._lewd_ things to me-”  
“And what else would you like me to do to you?” L interposes with yet another question, spellbound by his suspect's sudden sincerity.  
“I want you to touch me,” Light says under his breath, feeling so _hot_.  
“Where?” his elder purrs into his ear.  
“You already know,” Light whimpers.  
“No, I don’t.” L plays innocent. “You haven’t told me.”  
“My…” his suspect trails off, far too reticent and far too well-brought-up to say _that_ word.  
“Where, Light?” The detective affects a more hostile tone.  
“My cock,” Light finally spits, intimidated into compliance.  
“You want me to get you off?”  
“_Please_!” he begs, unsure if he can bear this throttling sensuality much longer.  
“Too bad,” L jibes. “You know I can't.”  
“Why not?” Light whines yet again.  
“Because you’ve misbehaved.”  
“I’m trying my best to be good for you,” he mewls, clutching the back of his elder's shirt tighter.  
“I know you are,” L soothes, “and you’re doing so well.”  
With a hushed moan, Light juts his hips. His cotton-clad legs squeeze tighter around blue denim. One of L’s hands leaves Light’s back and makes its way downwards to rest upon his hip, keeping him in place with a firm grip.  
“Don’t squirm,” the elder of the two orders.  
“Why not?” Light asks artlessly. He perceives _something_ in L's voice, but he can't quite figure out what.  
“Because I’m telling you not to.”  
“...Oh,” the brunet finally understands, “are you...?”  
“Yes, I am,” L answers bluntly.  
“That makes me glad,” Light admits, smiling to himself.  
“Why?”  
“I like pleasing you.”  
“How altruistic of you to consider my pleasure,” L chuckles. “You’re such a good boy, you really are. Why must you act up?”  
“I promise not to act up tonight,” his younger whispers furtively.  
“Tonight’s no good, Kitten.”

That utterance begets another twitch and a half-suppressed whimper.

“_Oh_,” the detective coos, “do you like it when I call you 'Kitten'?”  
“Yes,” his _kitten_ confirms coyly.  
“What else do you like to be called?” L purrs, desperately refraining from letting his hands wander.  
“I-I don’t know,” his companion stutters, “just my name, I guess?”  
“Okay, _Light_,” L croons, perfectly pronouncing that word in the English fashion.  
“Must I address you by an alias all the time?”  
“I insist.”  
“Is there nothing else I can call you?”  
“Nothing that I’m comfortable with right now.”  
“...Am I making you uncomfortable?”  
“You’re getting me rather bothered.”  
“Is that not good?” Light asks, simpering.  
“Being in a concupiscent state shall surely impede my ability to sleep tonight,” L spiels in grandiose tones.  
“That’s a fancy way of saying you’re horny, too,” his suspect giggles.  
“How very observant of you,” L chuckles.  
“_Oh_, can you _please_ touch me?” Light inquires impatiently.  
“No, Kitten,” L exclaims. "And I thought I told you to stop squirming."  
“You’re not helping," Light huffs, "with your flattering nicknames.”  
“I thought you liked that nickname,” L states, with an upswing at the end of his sentence.  
“I do.”  
“Then, why are you complaining? Silly child,” he jeers.  
“I’m complaining because you’re not touching me yet,” his younger ripostes.  
“Now, don’t be a brat,” L cautions.  
“No,” Light replies impishly. “I want your hand on my cock right now.”  
“Rather haughty tonight, aren’t you?”  
“_Please_, touch me, I’m begging you,” in annoyance, he resorts to pleading again, surreptitiously rolling his eyes.  
“I don’t want to,” L responds, displaying an equal amount of hauteur.  
“Why not‽”  
“Stop whinging; you’re much too loud.”  
“...You have someone else, don’t you?” Light says reluctantly.  
“What?” L questions in genuine bafflement.  
“You already have someone,” his younger states with certainty. “That’s why you refuse to touch me.”  
“How’d you jump to that conclusion?” the detective fleers at his suspect.  
“Used my brain. Though, I guess I’m wrong," the teenager derides, "since I’m so silly and childish.”  
“_Dear_,” L snaps out of his confusion and tries to reaffirm his honesty with cajoling words, “if I had eyes for anyone else, you would not be lying in my arms right now.”  
“That’s how I figured it out,” Light mutters.  
“Pardon?”  
“The way you hold me. It’s changed recently. You’re adapting to me. I know there was someone you held not long before.”  
“Does that bother you?”  
“Who is it?” he inquires, yearning for answers. “Are you still with them?”  
“Are you jealous?” L sneers.  
“Tell me who it is, please,” his younger pleads.  
“If you must know, he is in prison.”

A frown manifests itself upon Light's countenance.

He's not the first.

“...That’s where you want me, too, isn't it?” he asks, swallowing back tears. He wants to ask “_do I mean nothing to you_?” but rebels against this cruel cacoethes.  
“I’m not yet certain about that.”  
“Did you care for him?”  
“You _are_ jealous.” L sounds amused.  
“Have you ever cared for anyone?” Light sounds frustrated - in more ways than one.  
“Of course!” the elder of the two insists. “I care for plenty of people.”  
“Do you care about me?” Light questions.  
“Especially you, my kitten,” L tells him what he wants to hear.  
“Ha-” the teenager's fluctuating breath interposes, but he soon recovers, “how much do you care about me?”  
“You are my dearest friend,” his elder purrs. “My _confidant_.”  
“And…?” Light doesn’t understand that last word, for it's spoken in a language foreign to him, but assumes it’s good and solicits more praise.  
“And my sweet, little naïf.”  
“Y-you think I’m naïve?” he stammers in disbelief. “Quite,” L hums. “But I like that in a bloke.”  
“Tell me more,” Light impels impassionedly.  
“About?”  
“What I am to you.”  
“A companion. A bedfellow. Someone I trust with the secret of my identity.”

_A toy for me to play with until I can coax a confession out of that pretty mouth of yours_.

“And?”  
“What else do you want me to say, Kitten?”  
“I just...like to feel wanted.” Light lets himself lay his feelings bare.  
“You are wanted,” L assures him. “Trust me.”  
“Well, you make me feel like I am,” his younger utters breathily.  
“What else do I make you feel?”  
“Oh…” the brunet begins, unsure of how to express these emotions of his, “...you make me feel so much.”  
“Be specific,” L goads him. “I should very much like to know.”  
“Lust. Hatred-”  
"Hatred?"  
"Of myself and you."  
“What makes you hate yourself?” he asks. He had no idea this boy's self-esteem was so low.  
“For a while, I hated that I gave into you on that first night,” Light reveals in a hushed voice. “But, right now, I want nothing more…”  
“Nothing more than...?”  
“Nothing more than for you to...to hold me down again and...” he hesitates, unable to bring himself to say those vulgar words.  
“And?”  
“Do whatever you like to me,” he says, speaking speedily, impuissant to L's provocation.  
“You’re not as repressed as I thought,” the detective muses.  
“Is that good or bad?”  
“It’s good. Tell me more about how I make you feel, Dear.”  
“Why?”  
“I'm intrigued,” he murmurs, making his younger shudder.  
“Alright.” Light's voice quivers. “You make me feel desirable.”  
“Do you like that?”  
“Yes,” he all but moans. “I'd never felt that way before you.”  
“You felt undesirable?” L queries.  
“Yes,” his suspect confirms.  
“But you had girls at your feet in college,” the detective exclaims.  
“Girls don’t matter to me.” Light pouts once again. _Don't bring up girls right now_.  
“Of course not. You like feeling desirable to men, don’t you?”  
“I like being desirable to you.”  
“Just me?”  
“Just you.”  
“Why me?”  
“I have...told you before that I have always admired you,” he answers, sounding more and more eager with each word that passes his moistened lips, “and you make me feel curious.”  
“Curious about what?”  
“Don’t want to say it,” he mumbles.  
“It would be so good of you to tell me, Kitten," L praises, trying to pry those words out. "You’d make me very happy.”

Light whimpers once more as he wriggles in faint embarrassment, overcome by this indecorous carnality. Fleetingly, he bites his lower lip, before reluctantly speaking again, in a voice breathy and provocative.

“Curious about...sexual things.”  
“Ah, indeed?” L drags out his vowels, smirking to himself.  
“Yes.”  
“Surely, you’ve felt curious before?”  
“Of course, but...I'm more curious now than ever before.”  
“I felt much the same when I was your age.”  
“How much older than me are you?” Light asks again.  
“I'm afraid I cannot tell you,” the detective answers, as secretive as ever.  
“More or less than five years?”  
“More,” he says truthfully, for this much doesn't really narrow down the pool.  
“Oh.”  
“Problem?”  
“No.” Light realises L may have taken his previous utterance the wrong way. “I guessed you were younger than that.”  
“I might be,” L points out. “You don’t know that I’m telling the truth.”  
“You told me you never lie,” his younger recalls.  
“When it comes to my identity, I have to.”  
“I understand.”  
“Good boy. You’re so clever, you know.”  
“Tell me I’m good...” he whines.  
“Ask nicely,” L commands.  
“_Please_, can you tell me how good I’m being?”  
“You’re being _so_ good for me, Kitten. I’m so glad.”  
“Can you tell me more, please?”  
“How polite of you to ask, and with such nice manners, too~”  
“Does it please you? When I use keigo.”  
“It does.”

It pleases him more than he’s prepared to admit.

“Then, I’ll be very polite from now on.”  
“Oh, this is no good, Light,” L sighs.  
“Huh?”  
“I can’t lie here and praise you; it’ll only get you more and more worked up.”  
“That's what I want, though,” his younger giggles once again.  
“Don’t forget you’re still being punished,” L reminds him.  
“_Please_, be nice to me and let it end just one night earlier?”  
“You know I can’t.”  
“I don’t think this punishment is just," the brunet huffs, sulking.  
“I didn’t ask about your sense of justice.”  
“I didn’t ask you to pin me down, threaten me with death, and mark up my neck, but you still did!”  
“Aren’t you glad I did, though?”

Of course, he's glad. But, at the same time, he's devastated.

“I am," he answers only half-truthfully. "So glad,” he adds, thinking this may get him into L's favour.  
“Do you like all these marks I give you?” L asks for no reason other than to satisfy his licentious inquisitiveness.  
“I...don’t know how to answer that,” Light tells the truth.  
“Shall I rephrase the question?” L doesn’t wait for an answer before rephrasing the question: “Do you like being marked as mine and mine only?”  
“...I don’t know yet.”  
“Do you ever wonder what would happen if someone else saw those marks? What would they think? Your all too perfect, pure demeanour would shatter, wouldn’t it?”  
“I've never thought about that.”  
“Oh, but you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you? I can tell. Every single time your cock twitches and throbs, I can _feel_ it.”

Light lets out another guttural moan, trying to hide his face by burying it in L’s chest. He thinks it fortunate that they’re in the dark, for dimness masks his thoroughly florid complexion.

“What’s wrong, my kitten?” L's words are unctuous.  
“I’m embarrassed.” Light's words are slightly muffled.  
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed by your desires. They’re only human.”  
“You’re a lech.”  
“You like that about me.”  
“Mm, maybe.”  
“_Oh_, my darling,” L begins, that first word being the closest thing to a moan Light has ever heard him expel, “do you know how enchanting you are?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You are so very pretty.” At this point, he's practically eulogising his companion.  
“You really think so?” a flustered Light replies.  
“Absolutely. Ah, but I shouldn't even be thinking about you like this…”  
“Why not?”  
“No matter, Dear.”  
“No, _please_ tell me.”  
“...Alright.” L gives in to Light's begging, unable to resist. “You’re way too young, and also my prime suspect.”  
“...I’m not a child. And I know you think I’m Kira. I’m living with you to prove that I’m not.”  
“Suspicion begets suspicion. We should sleep.”  
“I’m not tired. Just horny.”  
“Well, I’m both.”  
“There is an easy solution to that...”  
“No way.”  
“Why not?”  
“You fought me when I tried to please you! Three times, Light. And then, you broke a promise and betrayed my trust.”  
“But I’m being good right now!”  
“What you’re doing now doesn’t matter. You know very well that you’re not allowed to get off until tomorrow.”  
“It’s been so long.”  
“I know,” he breathes, feeling...the faintest twinge of pity?  
“You like seeing me like this, don’t you?”  
“Like what?”  
“Stop asking questions you already know the answers to!”  
“You must be specific so I can understand you properly, Kitten.”  
“You like seeing me all worked up and unable to do anything about it, don’t you?”  
“I might,” L says with a smirk.  
“That’s so mean!” his younger exclaims.

L laughs. Light flinches at the sudden movement.

“Oi, why are you laughing at me?”  
“Sorry,” the detective chortles, “you just reminded me of someone when you said that.”  
“Who?” Light inquires as that all too familiar feeling of jealousy appears within.  
“Someone I grew up with.” All of a sudden, L's tone changes. Light thinks he sounds...sad?  
The brunet sulks to himself. “Well, I’d rather not hear about them.”  
“Your jealousy is unwarranted, my dear. He’s long since dead.”  
That sulk fades. “Oh. My condolences.”  
“Death by Kira’s hand,” L reveals, deep in reverie.  
“Is that why you want to catch Kira so badly?”  
“No matter what he did, he didn't deserve death.”  
“What did he do?”  
“Honestly, I fear I am the one who drove him to insanity.”  
“Are you listening to me?”  
“I’m listening, Light,” he says flatly, knowing he shouldn't dwell on his past. That never ends well.  
“Can you...” Light suggests, “...maybe not talk about him?”  
“Right,” L replies, not paying much attention to the words spoken. _He didn't deserve death_.  
“Talk about me. Or you. Or us.”  
“Honestly, Dear, I’d rather not talk at all. I’m shattered.”  
“I’ll keep you awake until you agree to let me finish.”  
“I haven’t slept in three days,” he drones.  
“I haven’t gotten off in...I don’t know how long, but longer than three days!”  
“Stop being ridiculous, Light. Just go to sleep.”  
“I _can’t_.”  
“You can. Now, goodnight.”  
L closes his eyes, by now far too tired to continue the conversation. Exasperated and hot, Light squirms and whines, goading his elder. He succeeds in getting a response; however, it's not the one he wants. Without bothering to open his tired eyelids, L sets his leg free from Light’s vice and loosens his grip on his back, pushing him away. The brunet's only response is another embittered whine. L pays him no heed, his arousal ebbing away. It began to fade when he started thinking about B. Now he can’t get him out of his head.

He misses him, though he shouldn’t. Above all, no sympathy for murderers. He feels no sympathy, no, none at all. They were over a long time ago. They were over the second B left, the second he betrayed him. Betray L and he’ll claim your façade as a twisted trophy _and_ adopt your manipulation tactics. Betray L, and you risk unleashing terrors most men couldn’t even dream up.

So caught up in this reminiscent dwam, he forgets Light is with him until he senses arms gingerly snaking around his waist and a head against his chest. Naturally, he reciprocates, holding his younger near. Light is behaving, it seems, and trying to sleep off his concupiscence. First thing in the morning, he’ll shower and relieve himself of all this pent-up tension.

For now, though, he will be good. After all, that's what L wants.

As of late, he has a peculiar keenness to let L have whatever he desires of him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is self-indulgent as all hell and I wrote it kind of as a way for me to vent, I ain't gonna lie. Desultory conversations are my speciality, after all...

Having made no progress with any of his cases, L decides to take his mind off his career.

He's stressed himself out.

Luckily enough, he’s found a fairly fun way to solve cases, that will likely relieve some of this stress. He backs up what little work he’s managed to get done, with unblinking, sore eyes, then shuts his laptop and sets it aside.

It's two in the morning. Light is asleep.

L mulls over whether or not he should wake him; it seems a rather tranquil slumber. Then again, Light always looks peaceful in sleep. When he wakes, he tends to be somewhat subdued, and oft-times lightheaded as most days he refuses to eat aught but a meagre lunch L has to practically force down him. He eats a sufficient amount to stay alive, though, which is all that is of consequence to L. A starving suspect is a dead suspect, and you can’t get anything out of a dead suspect. A tired suspect, however, is a living suspect, and one that’s easy to interrogate. A young, ingenuous suspect, in particular, is even easier to beguile. A touch-starved suspect who is way out of their depth, well, is not at all difficult to inveigle. Spin a clever web of pretty lies and your callow suspect will soon get tangled within the viscid gossamer. L is close to having Light wrapped right around his finger.

But he’s not quite there yet.

Naturally, he shall see to it that that is soon changed. He always gets what he wants.

And he wants Light. As shameful as he thinks it, he's attracted to him. Light is such a pretty little thing, so amenable, too, and complaisant by nature. He's the perfect plaything, another frivolous pastime for L. As soon as he gets that confession, he’ll lock the brat up and move on. And he will attain a confession, no matter how far he has to go. He will manipulate and groom and taunt and canoodle with as many people as he has to, pull as many strings as he has to, and cross as many lines as he has to - this much is routine by now.

Criminals are often foolish. Foolish enough to believe such conspicuous lies. Foolish enough to fall right into L’s trap. If you're persuasive enough and know precisely what to say, anyone will put their trust in you, whether they be a fool or no. And Light, oh-so sweet Light, who's such a fool when it comes to affaires de cœur, is undoubtedly close to putting his trust in L. Latterly, L has feigned benevolence, he's made so many empty promises. He's showered his suspect with warmth and affection; he’s been so attentive, sweet-talking and cuddling his way into that confession. But, Light’s not broken yet, resilient boy. He is certainly cracked, yes, but not broken. He must be entirely broken for L to force that confession from him, a hollow shell of everything he once was, a mere _thrall_.

All in good time, L reminds himself.

Fortunately for him, he has time in abundance. Precious time mustn’t be wasted on sleep. Thus, he unfurls his right arm and gently shakes Light’s shoulder. It takes him a few seconds to pry the boy from his deep sleep; fluttering eyelids and a slight stir signify his little victory. Not more than a half-minute passes before Light opens his weary eyes, then groggily speaks.  
“Is it time to get up?”  
“No, not yet.”  
“Thought it looked dark. Why’d you wake me?”  
“I confess I find myself rather bored.”  
“Oh. So you want to talk to me?”  
“I thought we might do more than just talk, Dear.”  
“No. I’m tired,” Light protests, letting his eyelids close.  
“Come, my darling, bestir yourself,” L persuades. “Let me again see those gorgeous eyes of yours.”  
“In the morning,” his younger contends quietly.  
“What’s wrong with now?”  
“I’m tired.”  
L holds his tongue. He’ll take advantage of his suspect's lassitude. Calm and calculating, he slips under the covers. Within seconds, he's straddling his younger. Light opens his eyes in acknowledgement, yet, curiously, does not attempt to ward off his aggressor.  
“You are not resisting,” L observes.  
“No,” Light affirms.  
“Why not? You should, for you are prone to attack.”  
“I trust that you won’t harm me,” he lies.  
“No, not if you don’t want me to.”  
“Why would I want you to?”  
“Light,” L whispers, leaning in closer, “you are so incredibly innocent.”  
He plants the first kiss on Light’s neck, then smirks to himself.  
“Winsome.”  
“I hold purity in high reg_ard_-” Light’s voice trembles. His breath falters as L’s hot tongue licks at his flesh.  
L pecks his skin once more before replying with:  
“That’s all you want to be, isn’t it?” He plants yet another kiss. “Pure.”  
“Stop,” Light blurts out as a sudden wave of anxiety washes over him.  
“Stop what?” the dark-haired detective questions through a mouthful of delicate skin.  
“I don’t want this," his younger confesses, defensively drawing his taut arms up and pushing against L's chest.

Knowing he has gone too far too soon, L pulls away.

“Why not?” he questions. “We’ve done this before.”  
“Get off of me, please,” his younger says, breathing heavily.  
“You’re scared of me,” L states, furrowing his brow.  
“Please?”  
L acquiesces, espying conspicuous fear in Light's eyes, and lies down next to his suspect.  
“Why are you scared of me?” he asks.  
“I-it’s not you that I’m scared of,” Light answers, stumbling over his words.  
“Then what is it?”  
“I’m just...afraid you’ll hurt me.” Gradually, his breathing begins to slow. _What the hell just happened?_, he asks himself.  
“You must remember my promise,” L says gently.  
“Of course, I do.”  
“Do you trust me?”  
“...Of course.”  
“You hesitated.”

10%.

“I’m not sure, okay?”  
“I’m saddened to hear so,” he laments. “You must know by now that I have faith in you, my dear. Why are you frightened of me?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Come now, you must know.”  
“I just don’t want...what happened last time to happen again. So, I’d rather we not do this.”  
“And the ‘last time’ was when…?”  
“The last time you caught me purging,” Light mutters, thinking back.  
“What don’t you want to happen again?” his elder queries, genuinely puzzled.  
“I know it sounds mad, and you don’t have to believe me, but I...think I had a breakdown,” the teenager reluctantly reveals. He doesn't know how else to describe what he felt.  
“A breakdown?” _Surely, he's exaggerating?_, L ponders.  
“Yes,” comes a terse reply.  
“Describe it to me,” the detective orders.  
“Well, I was...scared. No, petrified. I was shaking and crying; my heart was pounding and fluttering, I was convinced that you’d...” again, Light waters down his words.  
“Oh, Light…”  
“You think I’m mad, right?” _Shit_, he curses himself out, _I've messed everything up now_.  
“To me, that sounds rather like a panic attack,” L opines.  
“Impossible,” Light responds instantly. That absolutely cannot be the case!  
“Why so?"  
“I don’t have an anxiety disorder.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Positive.”  
“Dear,” L recollects, “you _did_ tell me you’ve felt anxious lately, especially after eating.”  
“That’s..." Light has to ponder over his words, "just because the way I think about food is messed up.”  
“Do you think you would’ve admitted to me that you have a problem had I not walked in on you with your fingers down your throat?” his elder asks brusquely.  
“What do _you_ think?” Light questions back snappishly.  
“I think you’re in denial about the extent of your issues,” L remarks. “I also think you're ashamed of said issues.”  
“Making me sound like I’m not in my right mind so I can better fit Kira’s profile, huh?” Light glouts.  
“Not at all, Dear. Do you always assume I have ulterior motives?”  
“Given our circumstances, I think it's reasonable for me to believe as much.”  
“So, you’re paranoid, too.”  
“I am not mad!” he exclaims.  
“No, you’re not,” his elder agrees. “But you do have issues, my dear.”  
“When did you become a therapist?” Light asks with mirthless laughter. And L has the nerve to call him cheeky!  
“You must know that this is not my first time dealing with an unsound teenager.”  
“Even so, you have no business prying into my mental health.”  
“Darling, mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. I, too, was once afflicted by such issues.”  
“Which issues?” Light presses, giving his elder a taste of his own medicine. “Since you think I have so many.”  
“Now who’s the prying one?”  
“It’s too personal, isn’t it?”  
“Right.”  
“Now, you know how I feel.”  
“Ah, sorry, Dearest. Still, my point stands. It is healthy to talk about your problems.”  
“What problems have I to talk about?”  
“You had a panic attack, Light! Do you not see any issue with that?”  
“I didn’t have any kind of attack,” Light denies. “I’m normal.”  
“Anxiety doesn’t make you abnormal, Darling.”  
“Shut up about anxiety! I don’t have any problems to talk about.”  
“You and I both know very well that you have problems with your eating. Would you like to talk more about that?”  
“No.”  
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to talk about your anxieties?”  
“Yes.”  
“At the very least, tell me how you’re feeling.”  
“Tired.”  
“If you were tired, you would have long ago told me to shut my mouth. And you wouldn’t be staring at the ceiling; you’d be all curled up and content with your eyes shut.”  
“You shocked me awake. What time is it, anyway?”  
“Tell me how you really feel.” L dodges the question.  
“I’m uneasy,” Light reveals. “I feel sick. It’s just nerves.”  
“What have you to be nervous about?”  
“I can’t explain it,” he sighs. He can't explain most of what he feels these days.  
“You can explain everything once you’re ready, Light.”  
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”  
“That’s alright. If percase you ever do feel ready, I will always listen.”  
“Thanks.”  
“Remember, you needn’t struggle alone. You can tell me anything, and, I assure you, it will stay between us.”  
“It’s your fault, anyway,” he asserts.  
“How so?”  
“You immured me for nearly two months! It was then that I developed this disgusting feeling.”  
“What kind of feeling is it?”  
“It’s anxiety, okay‽”

Amidst the tenebrosity, L only just catches the glint of those umber eyes finally making contact with his own.

“Keep your voice down,” the elder of the two warns.  
“Not to mention that stunt you pulled with Misa and my father!” Light almost yells, choking on a lump in his throat. “You don’t know the hell you put me through!”  
“Be quiet,” L repeats, gimlet-eyed.  
“Why should I‽ I’ve kept my mouth shut for so long!”  
“Watari has the room next to ours; you’re going to wake him if you don't pipe down.”  
“Oh, _shit_,” the teenager whispers, then gasps, covering his mouth when he’s realised what he just said.  
“You know,” L gives a half-suppressed laugh, “I think that might be the first time I’ve ever heard you swear.”  
Light stops concealing his mouth so he may speak clearly. “My parents taught me not to use such vulgar language.”  
“Well-bred through and through,” the detective muses. _Prissy little thing_.  
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner that next door is occupied?”  
“I didn't think it imperative.”  
“I’m glad these walls are thick…”  
“Fear not, they’re soundproofed as well.”  
“Why?”

Again, L chuckles.

“Oh, my little _ingenu_...”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“No, you don’t.”  
“Can you translate for me?”  
“I could. But I won’t.”  
“You insulted me, didn’t you?”  
“Oh, Dearest, I would never even think of doing such an unspeakable thing!”  
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”  
“That’s a change.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Nothing. Ignore me. You should go back to sleep.”  
“I’m not tired.”  
“Neither am I.”  
“If I may ask,” Light begins, eager for answers, “how is it that you can function so well on so little sleep?”  
“It’s a habit by now,” L answers. “Though it was tough at first, I admit.”  
“How do you have the energy?” his perplexed younger poses another query.  
“Sugar,” the detective reveals, letting himself smile.  
“Oh. I should’ve guessed,” Light says through a breathy laugh.  
“Speaking of energy,” his elder mutters, “you seem a lot more languid as of late.”  
“I do?” Light hadn't noticed.  
“You get dizzy, don’t you?” L questions, sounding sympathetic.  
“It happens.” The teenager's smile fades. _Why is he asking about this?_  
“Nauseous?”  
“I ignore that.”  
“That's not healthy, my darling.”  
“I’m healthy enough.”  
“Believe me, I say this with the utmost concern and candour - you are not eating enough.”  
“I am. I can function.”  
“Not as well as you used to.”  
“You don’t know what you’re on about,” Light says dismissively.  
“Don’t I, now?”  
“You have to understand that I can’t...'just eat more'. It’s difficult for me.”  
“Really, I worry about you.”  
“You needn’t.”  
“Henceforward, you'll eat at least twice a day.”  
“No,” Light unwillingly raises his voice as that emetic anxiety returns and bubbles deep within.  
“That was not a request, Light. It was a demand.”  
“You can’t make me!”  
“Don’t get overwrought. The simple fact is you cannot survive on miso soup and rabbit food alone.”  
“Obviously, I can. I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”  
“I am _this_ close to telling your father about your issues!” L raises his voice in frustration.  
“No, please don’t!” Light begs.  
“I won’t if you agree to eat more from now on.”  
“I don’t need it, though," he all but whines.  
“Of course you need it, Light, look at yourself!”  
“Please, stop talking about this.”  
“Your performance at work has declined, too. You’re simply not getting enough to nourish your brain, and it’s taking a toll on not just you, but the investigation, too.”  
“...I’m going through a lot, you know? You’re putting me through so much.”  
“Oh, don’t cry, please, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”  
“It’s a lot for me. My eating is the only thing I feel I'm able to control.”

Barely able to hold himself together, Light bursts into a paroxysm of tears after uttering that sentence.

“Darling, I’m so sorry. Come here.”  
With a glib tongue, L effortlessly lures his suspect into his arms. He lets him weep into his chest as he holds him tight. L was right in thinking that Light’s maladies could abet him. Maladies of the mind are easy to exploit. It's sad, almost. But L knows how to feel and act in this situation; he must remain impassive, not once will he let his perfectly-crafted veneer slip. One wrong move can throw this investigation into jeopardy.

Emotions are pretences.

No sympathy for murderers.

Well, no real sympathy. False sympathy is acceptable.

“You don’t have to speak,” L says softly, “just let me know if it’s okay for me to touch you.”  
“Where?” comes a muffled, unsteady reply.  
“You feel like you’re getting thinner. I would like to confirm my suspicions.”  
“Where?” Light repeats, voice wrought with sobs.  
“Your chest, if I may.”  
“No.”  
“Very well, then,” L sighs. “I won’t touch you without your consent.”  
“You better not be lying to me.”  
“Dear, why ever would you think that I’m lying?”  
“I don’t know, I just...get this feeling.”  
“What kind of feeling?”  
“A bad feeling in my gut.”  
“Oh? How come you’re just mentioning this?”  
“I didn’t think it imperative,” Light laughs even though his tears, echoing L’s earlier statement.  
“Anxiety begets such feelings. Ignore it.”  
“You’ve diagnosed me at this point, haven’t you?”  
“Afraid not, I haven’t the qualifications. What I do have, however, are my many suspicions.”  
“Settle down, amateur psychologist.” A single laugh escapes his trembling lips as his tears dissipate.  
“Not quite.”  
“What’s that mean?”  
“I fancy myself more of an amateur doctor. Won’t you play doctor with me?”  
“Childish.”  
“What’s wrong with being childish? I quite like being childish.”  
“Hypocrite.”  
“I asked you a question.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with being childish.”  
“The other question.”  
“...I don’t want you to touch me.”  
“I won’t hurt you.”  
“I know.”  
“You’re insecure, aren’t you?”  
“I might be.”  
“One of these days, I’ll finally get you to realise how gorgeous you are.”  
“You only think my face is pretty, and even then, I embellish it. If you saw the rest of me, you’d be disgusted.”  
“My sweet darling,” L croons, “please don’t ever say anything like that again.”  
“It’s the truth,” Light says miserably.  
“It’s what you’ve drilled into your mind. I will make my own decisions.”  
“Your hands are going nowhere.”  
“Not tonight, no.”  
“Not ever.”  
“You won’t be saying that when you’re all hot-blooded and athirst.”  
“...No, I probably won’t,” he concedes.  
“I shan’t press the issue any longer. You should rest a while longer.”  
“I should.”  
“Goodnight, Beautiful.”  
“Don’t let go of me.”  
“I won’t.”  
“Promise me?”  
“I promise you.”  
“Thank you. I like falling asleep like this.”  
“_Hush_. Goodnight, Darling.”  
“Night.”

L needn’t play doctor. His suspicions were confirmed the moment he felt Light’s ribs through his t-shirt. This boy is still dropping weight.

That simply cannot do. L needs to up his game.

Light is unlike any case he has previously taken under his belt. He's such a fascinating boy with such a brilliant mind. Beyond his fragile exterior and such pure naïveté, he is exceptionally tough. Any ordinary suspect would have given themselves over by this point in the investigation; they’d be submissive to L in every aspect. Yet Light is hanging on, desperately, to that single thread of willpower, as if his life depends on it; in a way, it does, for Kira’s final punishment shall surely be execution - this L has made sure Light knows. Perhaps that's why he is so defensive. Though, defences can easily be torn down.

And, besides, L knows Light’s weaknesses well. He understands them and knows how to exploit them, for they were once his. Once, a very long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I was super close to just scrapping this entire chapter. I played around with it a lot and in the end, this is what I decided on. Not much happens, I know, but think of it as an introduction to an upcoming trilogy ;)
> 
> Happy new decade btw, loves! Please take care of yourselves x


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I haven't experienced "the anorexic/ED voice" to this extent, I thought the concept could be interesting to explore.
> 
> Also, I am terrible with small talk and I don't really know how to write Aizawa and Mogi, so I apologise in advance for what you're about to read.

On occasion, the Task Force eat dinner together.

Usually, Light steers clear of these dinners, scheduling nugatory rendezvous with Misa to avoid consumption of what he adjudges to be empty calories. He has never enjoyed spending time with her, no, but has always enjoyed the fact that she never bats an eye when he lies straight through his eroded teeth and insists he isn’t hungry, that he ate not long ago. He appreciates her gullibility if nothing else. She can’t get him out of tonight's meal, though, as she says, regrettably, that she's busy with work for the night. As he and L take their seats, Light's heart sinks.  
“Nice of you to finally join us, Light,” Souichirou says from across the dining table with a doting smile.  
“Don’t mention it,” Light replies with the best fake grin he can procure plastered across his face.  
“Man, Watari’s cooking is delicious. You’re gonna love it!” Matsuda states, as ebullient as ever.  
“I’m sure I will,” Light says with a giggle, trying not to grit his teeth.  
“When it comes to food, Watari rivals my wife,” Aizawa adds.  
“Then, I’m looking forward to it. Speaking of significant others, Misa tells me she's not joining us. What's that about?” Light asks nervously.  
“Misa-san never joins us,” Mogi joins the conversation as Watari enters the room from the kitchen to wait upon L with a generous platter of assorted saccharine delicacies. "I thought you'd know that by now since you always seem to be with her when Watari cooks. Regardless, she's always saying she doesn't want to get fat, isn't she?"  
"O-oh," Light stammers, "yes, that's true."  
“Typical,” Souichirou snickers, “my wife was the same when we were younger.”  
“It’s how women are,” Aizawa agrees.  
“Men worry about their appearance, too,” L chimes in with a mouth full of marshmallow.  
“E~h‽ I never thought you the type to fret about good looks, Ryuzaki-san!”  
“I don’t, Matsuda-san. Light-kun, however, does.”  
“Please, could you refrain from speaking for me?” Light asks.  
“I am merely stating the truth,” L replies tonelessly.  
“You don’t worry, do you, Light?”  
“Of course not, Tou-san. I take great pride in my appearance.”  
“That much was clear from when you were nobbut a child,” the chief chuckles.  
“I see you’ve gotten closer to Ryuzaki-san, Light-kun,” Aizawa says, apropos of nothing.  
“How can you tell?” Light giggles again, donning his innocent veneer.  
“You haven’t been using keigo to address him for quite a while now.”  
“Oh, right-”  
“The language Light-kun uses is of no significance to me,” L interrupts the teenager.  
“Likewise,” Light replies, unable to mask the quiver in his voice.

The conversation quickly runs dry, much like Light’s throat.

Fortunately, the creak of the kitchen door breaks the deafening silence, as Watari waltzes in with a silver trolley full of food. Light lets out a sigh, relieved, but lamenting withal, for this is to be his third meal of the day.

As Watari serves up bowls of rice and sauce and plates of battered meat and God knows what else, Light has to look away. He swallows an intrusive lump in his parched throat; the smell of food alone is enough to make him feel qualmish. Looking to his left, he seeks solace in his constant companion, yet is met only with the sight of the detective’s long, pale fingers squeezing tentatively at an unsuspecting piece of daifuku mochi. He swiftly averts his eyes again, fixating his gaze on his lap. He’s been tapping at the back of his hand with three fingers, obsessively and trepidatiously, producing a neurotic melody too quiet to be heard. What can be heard clearly, however, is the shambolic clinking of cutlery and glasses, his colleagues’ mutters of gratitude, Watari’s footsteps gradually growing more and more distant, and ultimately, the dining room's door creaking shut.

His fidgeting hands stay put in his lap as everyone else helps themselves to the victuals on the table. Everyone bar L, of course, who is more than content with his selection of sweets. Light’s hands grow noticeably clammier. His breathing becomes ragged. This is bad. It’s really, really bad. This is going to spoil everything he’s worked so hard for.  
“Aren’t you going to eat, Light?”  
The teenager looks up to meet his father's gaze. He swallows, attempting to lubricate his mouth.  
“Y-yes,” he affirms with a nod.  
Apprehensively, he eyes up the cutlet on his plate. It’s dripping with grease, as if it wasn’t fatty enough, to begin with. It’s been deep-fried. All that oil, all those calories...how many calories are in this thing? Four hundred, maybe? Light chokes back the bile that rises into his throat, taking his eyes off the chopped cutlet lying upon his plate. He can see his colleagues’ mouths moving, forming words he can't hear over the harsh ringing in his ears. Frantically, his eyes dart, studying each dish's contents, until he spies some salad. With his left hand, he grabs the bowl and brings it near, dishing out a little onto his plate. He returns the bowl to its original position, then utters his thanks for the meal before gripping at the vegetables with his chopsticks and picking up a few strands of shredded cabbage. Reluctantly, he takes a bite, and the ringing in his ears quietens down a tad. He feels as if the entire world is watching him chew this food - certainly, he is being watched. He's being spoken to, as well, but cannot hear the words for this tinnitus. Self-reproachful, he swallows his first bite, the internal voice screaming as he does so.

_Why did you eat that, Light? You’ve had breakfast and lunch today, and now you’re sitting on your arse and eating dinner? Do you honestly expect ever to reach perfection if you keep stuffing your face like this? Two years of effort are going down the drain because you are utterly insatiable! You’ve ruined your restriction. It’ll go straight to fat, and you’ve only yourself to blame. You're never going to be perfect. You’re too weak. Weak, you hear me? Can you hear me, Light?_

Actually, he’s not certain all he hears is internal…

“Light-kun?” a familiar voice, assuaging and euphonious, calls out his name.  
All of a sudden, he snaps out of his delirium. Blinking, he puts on another smile and replies politely.  
“Yes?”  
“Is Light-kun feeling alright?”  
“I’m fine.”  
“You spaced out for a minute,” Matsuda says, his voice marred by uncharacteristic concern.  
“Just a headache.”  
“Are you sure you’re not getting ill again?” the chief joins in, sounding equally concerned, though he speaks through mouthfuls of his dinner.  
“I’m completely fine, don’t worry about it.”  
“You don’t seem like yourself lately,” Aizawa adds.  
“I think I’m a bit stressed from work.”  
“You best not be pushing my son too hard, Ryuzaki.”  
“Rest assured, Yagami-san, your son is safe with me. He has adequate rest and sustenance, and is welcome to talk about any problems he may have with either me or Watari.”  
“Light, is there anything you need to tell me?”  
“There’s nothing, Tou-san.”  
“If you insist. Aizawa's right, you know.”  
“It’s stress and nothing more, trust me.”  
His father nods understandingly, returning to eating in comfortable silence. Light’s mendacious smile morphs into a grimace. He’s hot under the collar now his façade has been threatened.

A perfect son’s pride and arrogance are unmatched, a perfect son never gets wary, and he certainly doesn’t have psychotic episodes in the middle of dinner. Perfect sons have to be entirely compos mentis.

Shovelling more salad into his mouth, he pushes the feelings of guilt to the corners of his mind and swallows with haste. His chopsticks slip out of his unsteady, clammy hands, hitting his plate with a clink that makes him wince. Five pairs of eyes fixate upon him, boring through his skull. Awkwardly, he picks his cutlery up, cursing himself for being such a clumsy fool.

_You’re an idiot. Everyone’s staring at you. They probably can’t believe their eyes, seeing you shove so much food into your greedy gob._

“Hey, Light-kun,” Matsuda, thankfully, pipes up, “try the pork! It’s really good.”  
“Is that so?” Light questions, feigning curiosity.  
He soon realises that everyone's stopped eating. Even L has put his sweets down. Ashen eyes watch Light’s every move intently. Everyone is waiting for him. Breaking eye contact with his closest companion, he looks down at the chunks of meat. They're fatty, oily, and coated in refined carbs. He looks up again and meets his father’s encouraging gaze. Not wanting to disappoint, he musters up some bravery and picks up a strip of meat. He takes the smallest possible bite, still shaking. Exhaling sharply, he covers his mouth with his free hand as he chews. Watari has not provided any napkins, so he is unable to spit it out surreptitiously. Ruefully, he swallows, then takes his hand away from his lips so he may speak.  
“It’s delicious,” he proclaims with a forced grin.

And he’s not lying. It truly is delectable. But that makes the guilt so much worse.

“Told ya!”  
“Not so loud, Matsuda,” Aizawa scowls.  
“Sorry…”  
Matsuda gives a small, apologetic bow. Light finds himself absent-mindedly nibbling at his food, for which he scolds himself. He can’t help it; it’s just so good! With little thought, he gobbles up the rest of that strip of pork, then does the same with a second piece. He supposes that it should be okay to indulge tonight, for he hasn’t in so long.

Though, memories of such indulgent nights haunt him.

There was a night, indeed a distant memory by now, when he felt that it was acceptable to be ventripotent, just for once, as one night wasn’t going to have an adverse effect on his figure. And he had fully intended it to be a one-time occasion - just one night of unbridled sybaritism! Until it happened again. And again. And again. Over and over and over, he succumbed to intemperance, unable to satiate the unbounded appetite he'd worked up succeeding days of starvation. Then, one night, he had an idea - one seemingly genius! A single, straightforward act could mend everything. It was a way to regain his purity, emptiness, and control - seemingly innocent, at first, and something he'd only ever resort to if he’d over-indulged. But, soon, it became much more, developing into a dangerous addiction. It spiralled into an endless cycle of starving, binging, then purging. Even when he didn't binge, eating started to make him feel bad, so he brought most everything he consumed right back up. He got away with it, too, until a certain detective threw a spanner in the works and locked him up. Even now, he can’t starve, for L makes him eat at least twice a day. He can’t binge, nor can he oft purge, for L is constantly at his side. The only time he gets to be alone is in the shower, and he can’t purge in there, as he either showers before breakfast, or last thing before bed; his stomach is always empty by then, for he doesn’t eat at night unless he’s secretly gourmandising. Even so, two years of experience have taught him how to disguise his disordered habits.

Sailing under false colours, Light manages to get through dinner and return to work with minimal issues. He lets his meal sit in his stomach for close to an hour before he deems that he must get rid of it, for so sick and guilt-ridden he feels just sitting and letting it digest, letting all those calories be absorbed, and letting himself run to _fat_. He can’t have this. Had he been at home it would have come back up the second he retreated upstairs; unfortunately, he now resides elsewhere, with an overbearing companion who no longer allows him to use the bathroom soon after eating. An hour is long enough, right? An hour is too long, he decides. Too long to let it sit. It needs to come back up. He needs to be in control again. He needs to be unmitigated perfection embodied. With cunning securely tucked beneath his mask of stolidity, he tugs gently at the chain which binds him to his erstwhile bête noire.  
“What is it?” L doesn't bother taking his eyes away from the lurid computer screen.  
“Bathroom.”  
“Can Light-kun wait a short while longer?” His hands tap away at his keyboard intensely.  
“No.”  
The detective's typing comes to a halt, and then he hops out of his chair. The counterfeit curvature of his spine displays his true dedication to his little charade.

_We’re so alike_, Light muses with silent mirth.

No words pass between the two as they make their way to the nearest lavatory. Wordless they remain still as Light locks himself inside, though their chain barely fits through the gap underneath the door. He turns on the light, sighing as he does so. Guilt clouds his thoughts.

_You ate far too much. You let yourself go again, you voracious wretch. Now, you know how to atone for this. Be a good boy, get on your knees, and repent._

He hearkens to that voice so deeply embedded within his mind, blindly obeying it’s every command and throwing his knees against the icy tiles below. Promptly, two fingers situate themselves within his throat, begetting a raucous retch. This sensation is one he’s long since accustomed to. Indeed, these repetitious acts are almost tedious: tearful eyelids reflexively slamming shut as he regurgitates that first mass of gunge; weakened teeth sinking into disfigured knuckles as he makes a sound too loud for his liking. He knows he’s going to bleed. Yet, he’s not thinking about how L will react, nor the punishment he'll inevitably receive. He's not thinking about anything other than the way he jams his fingers down his throat, the way his brittle nails claw at his flesh in noiseless protest, begging him to refrain. He shan’t refrain, not for one second. Step by step, he shall reach his goal of pure perfection. Mouthful after mouthful of ejecta, he shall regain control over his wretched, flawed body. It’s not at all pleasant, having half-digested globs of rice and meat adhering to his gullet, but he does it for the beau idéal, and the sense of complacency he obtains from no other act. Oh, he’s tried alternative ways to cleanse himself: over-exercising until he collapsed breathlessly in his bedroom, and starving until he fainted in front of poor Sayu, but nothing else brings him the same euphoria that vomiting does. Euphoric though it makes him feel, he doesn't actually enjoy the act of making himself sick. Rather, he enjoys the outcome - the point when he’s desperately clawing at his gag reflex, all snotty and lachrymose and exsanguinated, trying his hardest to bring more up, only to realise that everything has come up. The point when he’s empty, pure, and so goddamn _smug_, for his victory has been achieved.

The effects on his body he deems his trophies. The swollen cheeks he sees as having an invigorating rosy hue. The bloodied, torn knuckles he obsessively runs his fingers across, intoxicated by the feeling of his bones. The raw, irritated throat encourages him to starve. For him, there's a morbid beauty in it all.

He regrets eating that rice as a clump of which rises from his oesophagus and sticks in his throat. Tears run down his cheeks as he chokes on the unwelcome mass and helplessly gags on his fingers. In desperation, he opens his mouth wider and angles his face downwards as the breath escapes his lungs. Panic quickly overcomes him, and for a moment, he thinks he's a goner until he manages to expel it with two coughs.

_Oh, shit,_, he curses himself out. _That was too loud_.

He braces himself, knowing he’s going to get caught. Sure enough, he hears the lock being picked, then L barging in. Seeing Light with his fingers down his throat enkindles an aberrant feeling within L’s chest - the oddest twinge of...pity? Pity whose presence he soon represses - no, _rejects_ \- whilst he rushes over to the troubled teenager.  
“This really must stop,” he snarls, restraining his younger by the wrists.  
“Let go of me,” Light orders, struggling against L’s hold.  
“You promised me you would stop purging. You’ve betrayed my trust _again_, Light.”  
“I never promised a thing!” the youngest of the two ripostes. “I said it would be hard to resist the urge.”  
“I was a fool to put my trust in you,” L jeers.  
“I know.”  
“...Why do you keep doing this, Darling?” he asks, capriciously changing his tone.  
“You wouldn’t understand.”  
“Oh, wouldn’t I?”  
“No, you wouldn’t," Light asserts, so clueless. “I’ve already told you why I do it, and clearly, you’re not able to understand my reasoning.”  
“You know nothing about me,” L snaps gracelessly. “Don’t you dare make assumptions like that.”  
“Whatever. Are you going to let go of me or not?”  
Without verbal protest, he sets his younger free, glaring at him with conspicuous choler. Notwithstanding his aggravation, he desists from lashing out, rising to his feet. Light follows suit, then flushes his ejecta away, ignoring lightheadedness. As per usual, he mopes over to the sink, then soaps up his slimy digits, his wounds stinging as he does so. He swills his hands with cold water, then pats them dry. Hesitantly, he gazes into the mirror. His makeup’s ruined.  
“Can we head back to our room?” he inquires of his elder.  
“You’re not getting any more time off work.”  
“No, I mean just for a few minutes. Look at me.”  
“I have been looking at you. You look like someone who’s slowly destroying themself.”  
“I’m not destroying myself!” he snaps.  
“You are," L snaps right back. “Do you know how worried I am?”  
“I’m fine.”  
“Stop lying to me. You and I both know you’re not 'fine'.”  
“Can I fix my makeup? Or am I to go back to work with it all down my cheeks?”  
“Just clean it off in here, we don’t have all night.”  
“I'd quite like to brush my teeth, too.”  
“You’ll only be rubbing acid all over them.”  
“What?”  
“You didn’t know?”  
“No.”  
“I dread to think of the state your teeth must be in. You’re better off washing your mouth out with water. It may save you from a few caries.”  
“How do you know so much about this stuff?”  
“That's none of your concern.”  
“Maybe not. I can’t help but wonder, though.”  
“Don’t pry into my personal affairs.”  
“As you pry into mine? Anyone would think you have something to hide.”  
“I do. My identity.”  
“I’m not going to uncover your identity by rooting through the world’s medical records, Ryuzaki.”  
“Who said anything about a medical condition?”  
Light glares, biting his tongue. L’s too smart for his own good. Wasting no more time, he takes some toilet roll, runs it under the tap for but a fraction of a second, then dabs at his mascara-beset cheeks.

_I look terrible_.

_When do you not look terrible? How can you stand the sight of yourself? Just look at the fat in your cheeks, not to mention the rest of that wreck you call a body. Get rid of Ryuzaki so you can get on your knees and spew out your regret. Push him out of the room if you have to! Steal those lockpicks from his pocket so he can’t bother you! Just get him out!_

As Light idly gazes into the mirror with a vacant look in his bloodshot eyes, L imbibes. This kid isn’t admiring himself, the detective realises. He’s _judging_ himself. Perhaps he’s not the little narcissist L initially thought him, after all.

A hand on his shoulder pulls Light from his neurosis, making him flinch.  
“Would you like me to help?” his elder queries.  
“What?” Light questions back.  
“You seem distracted.”  
“I’m fine," he lies.  
“I know what you’re doing,” L declares. “Picking out all your imperfections. _Criticising_ yourself. Turn around.”  
“I’m fine,” the teenager repeats in a voice uninflected.  
“Face me, Light.”  
“I can see you just fine.”  
“Face me, Light. Not my reflection.”  
L’s minacious tone compels Light to acquiesce. Without preamble, L takes the tissue from his companion, then lightly dabs it against his carmine cheeks.  
“Look at me,” L instructs in a voice imperial yet tender.  
Doe-eyed and forlorn, Light looks up.  
“You have such nice eyes.”  
“You’ve told me before,” he mutters.  
“I mean it, Light. You don’t know how pretty you are.”  
“Shut up. You’re lying.”  
“Look at me.”  
“No.” The objection comes out sotto voce and tremulous as he blinks back tears.  
“Look at me!” L growls, seizing Light's chin to force the eye contact.  
Light mewls as he recoils in fear, latching onto the sink behind him. The detective then loosens his harsh grip, lowering his arm, and persists in his task.  
“You’re blushing,” he observes, feeling the heat in Light's cheeks.  
“I know.”  
“I’m nearly done with this. Do you want to talk now or later tonight?”  
“What have we to talk about?”  
“You know exactly what we need to discuss. You’re not getting any better.”  
“Did you honestly think you could somehow save me?”  
“I hoped I could dissuade you at the very least. I tried to make you see some sense, yet never intended to ‘save’ you. You made it clear you don’t want to recover, and I am not a therapist, nor am I a doctor.”  
“Let me do my own thing.”  
“You need help.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”  
“...We’ll talk more tonight. Come,” he lowers his arm, thinking Light looks presentable enough now, “we should get back to work. We’ve been gone too long.”

They return to the main hall with no further words passing. The Task Force pay the obvious elephant in the room no heed out of their respect for L and the chief’s son. They all know they're not in a position to be nosy.  
“Tou-san?”  
The awkward, tense silence is broken. Father and son meet eyes.  
“What is it?”  
Light mumbles three simple, dreaded words:  
“My chest hurts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may become a little more sporadic. I have terrible writer's block lately.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay.

“My chest hurts.”

Souichirou’s heart sinks. Instantaneously, pure panic besets him.

_Oh, dear God_, he entreats to every known deity within the cosmos, _not my son. Please, not my son_!

“Whereabouts?” he asks tentatively, not letting his stony expression falter.  
Light gestures to his chest's centre. “Here.”  
“...I’m calling an ambulance.” Souichirou stands, rushing towards the house phone atop the panel.  
“Yagami-san,” L jumps up, halting the chief with a grip on his wrist, “I do not think that will be necessary.”  
“He could be having a heart attack!”  
“Don't frighten him.” L lowers his voice in warning. “This could pass. We shall wait ten minutes before taking action.”  
“If it’s Kira, he may not have ten minutes to live!” Souichirou retorts in an equally hushed voice.  
“Light-kun, are you alright?”  
Souichirou and L turn their heads in the direction of Matsuda’s voice. He’s crouched beside Light with his hands on the arm of the teenager's desk chair. Light stares ahead with a shaky, wounded hand over his mouth and a shackled left arm extended in L’s direction.  
“Light-kun?” L inches closer, crouching before the young brunet.  
“It’s Kira…” Light mewls, his voice well-nigh inaudible.  
“Light-kun best come with me.”  
“We’re taking him to a hospital, Ryuzaki,” Souichirou announces.  
“I’m not going anywhere!” Light retorts.  
“Watari is a trained medical professional," L reveals. "He is more than capable of establishing a diagnosis.”  
Light shakes his head as tears start spilling.  
“Please, don’t cry! You've got to breathe deeply, okay?” Matsuda attempts to soothe, offering his best advice.  
“Matsuda, stay out of this," L mutters. "Please, arise, Light-kun," he commands clearly.  
“I’m going to die, Ryuzaki…"  
“Stand up, please," he repeats.  
“I-I’m going to die!” Light sobs.  
“Light-kun, please, listen to Ryuzaki-san.”  
“Thank you very much, Matsuda-san, but I do recall telling you to stay out of this.”  
“I’m sorry, but Light-kun is my friend,” Matsuda replies.  
“He is my friend, too,” L counters.  
“He is my son!” Souichirou points out.  
“Calm down, Light-kun,” Aizawa pipes up, taking to his feet. “You're breathing too fast.”  
“Light, stand up,” the chief commands. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”  
“He doesn't require a hospital,” L sighs. He knows what's happening.  
“Ryuzaki-san is right,” Mogi chimes in. “If Kira is targeting Light-kun, a hospital isn’t going to be of much help.”

Upon hearing this remark, Light lets out a caterwaul of terror, entwining his hands with his hair.

“You're not helping,” L lours in Mogi’s direction.  
“Enough is enough.” Souichirou huffs, striding over to his son.  
The chief reaches out, but L extends an arm, preventing physical contact.  
“Don’t touch him,” L drones.  
“He is my son!” the chief repeats. “I know him better than anyone else here.”  
“No,” Light chokes out.  
“Light-kun should stop pulling his hair.”  
“Ryuzaki, before I die-”  
“Stop talking about death, Light, I can't bear it!”  
“Light-kun-”  
“_Matsuda_,” Aizawa warns.  
“Sorry...I’m just trying to help.”  
L sighs. Words alone aren't going to coax this boy out of his hysteria. Actions may, however. Thus, L brings a hand to his younger's, gently prising them away from the locks they tug.  
“Stand,” he makes an order, not a request, as he meets Light’s eyes.  
L stands first, encouraging his younger. Nine or ten seconds pass, and just as he thinks he'll have to take further action, Light charily rises from his chair.  
“Now, if Light-kun could please follow me.”  
Light nods, resisting the overpowering urge to throw himself into L’s protective arms, merely to keep up appearances. God knows what his father would think if he saw him in such an intimate position with another man. So susceptible, so _weak_; he can’t let his father see him like that, he could be disowned, so quickly turning to ashes in Souichirou’s mouth...he prefers not to think about it. Like a lost lamb, he tails L, feeling faint. It’s Kira, he thinks. His actions have all been planned out. He’s going to die soon.  
“I’m coming with you.”  
L stops in his tracks. Light instantly mimics.  
“That won't be necessary, Yagami-san,” he replies monotonously. “Watari will apprise you of Light-kun’s condition.”  
“I'm coming with you whether you like it or not.” Souichirou’s voice breaks as he holds back tears.  
L, though a tad miffed, nods in assent. He takes to his heels once again, though Light stays put, standing in place, exposing only his tearful eyes as he hyperventilates into his hands. Tactful, L retraces his steps and places a hand on Light’s upper back. He leads his younger forward, with Souichirou in close pursuit.

Even with frequent reassurance from his kindly father, Light cannot seem to calm down. Thoughts of death plague his mind, begetting constant consternation; his chest burns, his heart races, tears blur his vision, and the lightheadedness is almost too much to bear. By the time they reach the lift, he's reeling, and he all but collapses against the back wall. He frantically cerebrates, wondering when he’s going to drop dead. Oh, no, he doesn’t want to die in front of his father! Why did he have to come along? He doesn’t want to die in front of L, either! Wait...why? L should not affect him so; he shouldn’t care less about whether or not that libertine sees him die! And yet, he does. The thought of L cradling his corpse, as he had done so in mutual life, makes him sick to his stomach. He throws his hand over his mouth and chokes back the vomit. Immediately, the caustic emulsion gnaws away at his gullet. An acerbic taste lingers, this burning sensation is one he became attuned to in times immemorial. There are so many things he’s missed out on and so many things he hasn’t had the chance to say! With one hand muffling his sobs and the other tangled amidst his tresses, he squeezes his eyes shut. Dizziness overpowers him, and he prepares himself the best he can for his ineluctable death. But before that, he has one last thing to say.  
“Ryuzaki?” he cries out in despondency.  
“I’m here.”  
L's voice flows like honey; it's rich and harmonious, the only sound able to even slightly mollify Light’s hysteria. Enrapt, the teenager opens his eyes and comes face to face with L, whose visage temporarily pacifies him, before tears again obscure his vision. It's then that he realises he’s on the ground with his knees pulled against his chest and his back against the wall into which he stumbled.  
“Can Light-kun hear me?”  
He nods.  
“I have been trying to get his attention for some time,” L says softly.  
“Ryuzaki, I-” a sob halts the teenager's sentence.  
“Stand up, Light. Pull yourself together,” Souichirou offers up his guidance.  
Light had all but forgotten about his father's presence. Oh no, his father! Dread fills him as he figures out he's, most likely, the first of many victims. Kira will kill him, and then the rest of the Task Force, perhaps even L, too! _This can’t be happening_, he thinks. He’d known from the very beginning that this line of work would be dangerous, but-

His train of thought is interrupted when a cold hand enclasps his own.

Against his will, his hand is pulled away from his hair and placed atop his left knee. This is L’s doing, of course.  
“My heart!” Light cries as it flutters.  
“Watari will soon ascertain the source of Light-kun’s discomfort,” L soothes.  
“No, it’s…”  
“What’s wrong, Light?”  
Light dares to ignore his father, feeling recalcitrant, and takes ahold of L’s wrist, then presses his hand against his heart.  
“Tachycardia,” L remarks within seconds.  
“I-it was,” his younger stutters, sobbing still, “p-palpitating.”  
“_Hush_, now. Light-kun should stand.”  
L starts pulling his hand away, only for it to be seized by a whimpering, ensnarled Light, who tightly secures it within his own.  
“Stop this, get up,” an exasperated Souichirou grumbles at the sight.  
L is drawing in a breath to make his reply when Light wrings his palm, vying for his attention. Gloating silently, the detective reciprocates and interlocks their fingers, giving his younger’s hand a reassuring squeeze.  
“What is that‽” Light weeps, clutching his chest with his free hand.  
“What do you mean?” Souichirou’s voice is wrought with worry.  
“I-in my chest,” the distraught teenager stammers.  
“Does it still hurt?” L catechises with factitious commiseration.  
“It hurts,” Light confirms, “but-”  
“Get a grip on yourself. You need medical attention!” Souichirou mithers.  
“Yagami-san is right,” L agrees. “Please, stand. Watari is just down this corridor.”  
“Dizzy,” is Light's only reply.  
Scheming and solicitous, L takes Light’s free hand into his. The look in those tearful eyes L finds so endearing. Light is even prettier when he’s impuissant; there's so much beauty in those sleekit, stained, scarlet cheeks. There's so much beauty in those trembling, tempting lips.

Ah, but now is not an appropriate time to marvel over Light’s good looks.

Assiduously, L pulls Light to his feet. The boy stumbles, nearly keeling over due to how weak-kneed he feels, but L holds him up, keeping his hands around his upper arms.  
“Can you stand?” Souichirou asks, rushing to his son's side.  
“Y-yes,” Light chokes out. “Just dizzy.”  
“I can carry Light-kun, should he so desire,” L offers.  
“No,” Light shakes his head, “I’m fine.”  
“Light-kun is weeping, hyperventilating, and shaking, and complains of chest pain, vertigo, and heart palpitations. He is not 'fine'.”  
“Ryuzaki, I...need to te-tell you some...thing.”  
“We can’t waste any more time!” Souichirou urges. “Get ahold of yourself.”  
“What is it?” L ignores the chief's supplications.  
“I’m-”  
“Please, Light, listen to me," the chief interrupts his son. "What’s gotten into you? You’re not usually this disobedient.”

_Oh, isn’t he, now?_, L mentally chuckles.

“I-I-” Light stammers, unable to get those two words out. Why is it so hard for him to say‽  
With a sigh, L releases his hold on Light’s arms. It takes everything in Light’s power for him to desist from embracing L and weeping into his shoulder. He wants to be held close, just one last time, he wants to be comforted with physical affection so he can be at ease when he passes. Yet, he's doubtful that's the death Kira has planned out for him. He’ll die painfully, with those he cares about forced to bear witness, assuming they survive this ordeal. L will be left with a corpse to cradle. His parents will be free of the encumbrance that was their imperfect son, who was never enough for them, good riddance. Little Sayu, darling that she is, will be left with a hole in her heart, an empty place in her life no one can fill. Oh, who is Light kidding? They’re all going to die: his father, L, Matsuda, Mogi, Aizawa, Watari...they know too much, and Kira has finally caught up with them. He only hopes his mother and Sayu will be spared.

This is the worst L has ever seen Light; he has to pretty well force the boy out of the lift and down the hallway with a hand on his back. Souichirou mutters periodically, but L doesn't pay much attention, focusing on the man’s son. L might sympathise with the poor little thing if he wasn't a murderer. It's amusing how the almighty Kira bluffs his way through this anxious episode, for Gods are not afflicted by such trivial ailments, no, that would be preposterous! Which is all the more reason for a boy who fancies himself a god to be in such deep denial about his issues.

15%.

The detective hasn't much time to pore over percentages and postulations, as the trio reach Watari’s dwellings. He distances himself from the tormented faux deity that is his latest leman and knocks on the door. Upwards of a minute passes before a key turns in the lock and Watari emerges.  
“Why have you come here? Is something wrong?” the older man asks, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.  
“Light-kun complains of chest pain and palpitations. Ah, vertigo, too.”

One look at that boy and Watari knows exactly what bedevils him.

“He is having a panic attack,” he states in English, so as not to be understood by the chief and his son.  
“I know,” L also switches to English, “but please, give him some peace of mind. He thinks it’s a heart attack.”  
Watari nods, understanding fully.  
“Come in,” he says in Japanese.  
He ushers the trio through the door, with his wonted genteel demeanour, into a most unwonted living space. The room is dim, lit only by the harsh luminosity of countless monitors strewn across the wall in front of them. Souichirou gasps in horror, chap-fallen, realising that each monitor displays a live feed of every room in the building.  
“This...” he begins, his voice tremulous with ire, “this is an invasion of privacy!”  
“Now is not the time, Sir.”  
Souichirou swears he sees Watari scowl, but is unable to confirm this suspicion, as the older man turns around to address Light.  
“Please, be seated, Yagami-kun.”  
He escorts the frenzied boy to a settee behind a coffee table in the corner of the room, upon which the teenager collapses with his head in hands. Having been pulled along by the chain, L perches himself on the arm of the settee, hugging his knees, and is soon met with silent disapproval from his handler.

_Fair façade, indeed_, the older man thinks.

Souichirou isn't far behind the bound pair. He stands up straight, keeping his distance, with the table situated between him and his son. Conserving his esteemed honour, he watches as Watari retreats behind a door beside the monitors mostwhat concealed by darkness.  
“Why a-am I not d-dead yet?” Light speaks for the first time in minutes.  
“Light-kun is not dying,” L reassures.  
“How do you know that?” the chief questions.  
“You are not alleviating Light-kun’s distress,” the younger man sighs.  
“Light never gets distressed; there’s something seriously wrong with him. I just know it.” Souichirou fights back tears, hiding his woes.  
“Tou-san!” Light shouts suddenly.  
“What’s wrong?” the chief immediately asks, coming to his son's relief.  
“It _hurts_…” the teenager whines.  
“I know, my son. But you’re a strong boy; you can handle this.”  
“I’m dying!” he sobs.  
“I think that rather improbable,” L says flatly, chewing on his thumbnail. “See, if we assume Kira is claiming Light-kun as his next victim, implying Light-kun is not Kira, which I, for one, highly doubt-”  
“My son is not a murderer!”  
“As I was saying,” he continues, unmindful of the chief's insistence, “_if_ Kira is targeting Light-kun, he certainly is prolonging his death. That doesn’t fit his modus operandi. Kira prefers to kill swiftly, silently, and efficiently. Therewithal, why would he target Light-kun alone? Surely, killing us all at once would be rather more productive.”  
“...How do we know my men are okay?” the chief asks, pondering over possibilities.  
“Security cameras, Yagami-san.” L nods towards the monitor-laden wall. “Observe. Your men are fine.”  
Souichirou takes a gander at the feed. The thought of being spied on leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Gosh, there are so many rooms, most of which he hasn’t seen before...how is he meant to find the one he’s looking for? He squints, studying each screen, most chagrined when he sees his own quarters in lurid infrared colours. At that moment, Watari hurries in with a hefty, off-white briefcase in hand, attracting Souichirou’s attention. The white-haired man finally turns on the light, then winces at the sudden brightness.  
“I need to draw some blood,” he announces as he walks over to his patient. “Are you okay with this, Yagami-kun?”  
Light doesn't reply. Instead, he grizzles into his hands. Soon, L deems it necessary to provoke an answer.  
“Light-kun?”  
“...What?” the teenager mumbles hesitantly, enfettered by discarnate rakshasas steadily dragging him nearer to an endless pit within his muddled mind.  
“Watari needs to take some blood,” the detective relays.  
“No!” Light objects.  
“Is Light-kun afraid?” L questions.  
“Of course he’s not afraid!” Souichirou is quick to respond.  
The younger man shoots the chief a glare. “I asked your son, not you.”  
“_Don’t_,” Light hisses.  
“Yagami-kun, a blood test is crucial,” Watari breaks his brief silence. "This could be a matter of life and death. Please, reconsider.”

_Don’t let him blemish your skin. Don’t let him sully and mar you. Don't let him add to your imperfections. Then again, would it really matter? You’re revolting. You’re weak, and you will remain so until your very last breath, which, let’s be honest, isn’t far away. You couldn’t even get your dinner up without puling like the feeble brat that you are. You couldn’t even put up a proper fight when confronted. Look forward to your weight gain, incompetent sod._

“Shut up!” the teenager half-sobs, half-yells.  
“Light!” his father yells back.  
“Not you…” Light clarifies.  
“My sincerest apologies, Yagami-kun,” Watari begs forgiveness, assuming he was the intended recipient. “I only wish to help.”  
“I j-just wa-want it to shut up,” Light stammers.  
“‘It’?” L questions.  
“It never shuts up!”  
“What never shuts up?” he presses for answers. 'It'?  
“Take my blood,” Light blurts out, almost too fast to catch.  
“Thank y-”  
“Before it makes me cha-change my mind,” he interrupts the older man.  
“What might ‘it’ be?” L pipes up once again. _Surely, he's not suffering from psychosis?_, the detective ponders. _No, that can't be it. I would've noticed the symptoms long ago, wouldn't I_?  
“If you could lend me an arm?” Watari requests.  
Light complies, inattentive to L’s inquiries as he offers up his left arm.  
“It will be necessary for you to remove your jacket,” the older man explains.  
“No,” Light demurs.  
“Light-kun, please-”  
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” the teenager hisses, tugging at his hair again. “Just _shut up_!”  
“Don’t be so impertinent, Light!” the chief scolds his son. “I thought I raised you to be better than this!”  
“It never stops,” Light sobs.  
“What never stops?” his father asks in discontentment. “You’re not making any sense.”  
“Never shuts up. Always...” the boy pauses to sob, “...here,” he adds in a voice nigh-inaudible as he lets his arms go limp.  
“Yagami-kun, I beseech you. For the sake of your health, you need to listen to me,” Watari adopts a more gentle, fatherly tone - the one he used to persuade L in childhood.  
“Ju-just make it all stop!” Light begs.  
“I am only able to ease your pain once I ascertain the cause,” Watari declaims. “Please, remove your jacket.”  
“I-it won’t let me,” the teenager mumbles.  
“Might you be able to get through to him, Sir?”  
“Listen to me, Light.” Souichirou’s tone is stern and professional.  
“Y-yes, Tou-san.”  
“Stop prosing on and on about this imaginary force that prevents you from making rational decisions. You’re making excuses; this isn’t what I expected of you. Let Watari do what he needs to.”  
“Yes, Tou-san.”  
Sheepishly, Light divests himself of his red and black checkered flannel, stripping down to his black t-shirt.

_Gave in to Daddy, huh? Gave in to authority again? You might as well get on your hands and knees and start licking everyone’s boots! Why do you idolise that man? You know he sees you as a letdown. You’ll never be good enough for him; he’ll rejoice when he sees you breathe your last. Do you honestly think he’d be proud of a son who was stupid enough to land himself on Kira’s radar? Who would be proud to have you as their son? You, a powerless fuck-up with absolutely no self-control who-_

“Can Light-kun hear us?” Light's friend’s voice, so reassuring, again brings him to his senses.  
“I can,” Light confirms hoarsely.  
“Please present your arm,” Watari requests.  
Light nods, then unfurls his left arm once more. Watari soon attaches a tourniquet, which probably isn’t needed, as Light’s skin seems quite thin already.

_Look at him trying to get that band around your blubbery arm. It barely fits. Oh, everyone's noticed, don’t even try to kid yourself. They all think you could stand to lose a few pounds. They all know you’ve been gaining lately. All this damage, you, and you alone, have caused. Don’t blame Ryuzaki; he’s not forcing food down your neck! You pick it up and shovel it into your gob every single day, once he blandishes you into it. Pathetic. Meek. Worthless._

Light twitches in pain when the needle pierces the skin of his inner elbow. As his very ichor is drained, he finds himself ensorceled with the sight of crimson liquid filling that transparent tube…

_If only that needle could suck out my fat, too_, he marvels. _Maybe then I’d be perfect_.

“Thank you ever so much,” Watari expresses his gratitude after retrieving the sample.  
The older man removes the needle and tourniquet without issue. He returns the tourniquet to his kit, from which he retrieves a ball of cotton wool.  
“Please, hold this to your arm for a little while.”  
He hands the cotton wool to Light, who reluctantly presses it against his flesh wound.  
“Thank you,” Watari says as he attaches a small piece of tape to secure the swab.  
Subsequently, he stands upright and saunters off with the sample in hand, venturing deeper into his quarters once again. Light immediately puts his flannel back on, covering himself up and buttoning down his sleeves. He hugs himself, self-soothing, ignoring the pins and needles in his arm and blubbering like an infant. The voice is especially loud tonight. It's loud and demanding and demeaning and taunting and omniscient and _powerful_. It's everything Light is not, everything he covets.

Loud, Light wants to be - _God_, he wants to scream his lungs out, yet he keeps his mouth shut and locks everything inside. After all, his problems are his and only his; it's not fair to burden others with them.

Demanding he wishes he could be, but he was brought up to be ever reverent. Besides, he's docile by nature and hasn’t the temerity to make demands.

When he was in school, indeed not long ago, he found some of his classmates so _detestable_; they had such warped ideas about justice, so little compassion, and so little empathy! He wanted nothing more than to demean and beat some sense into those classmates, but he kept his hands and thoughts to himself, politely smiling and nodding in acknowledgement of their fallacious, foolish opinions, as a perfect student should.

Some nights, when L taunts him, Light gets the urge to give just as many backhanded compliments, and to goad him, incite him, and compete with him! He represses these urges, naturally, for they are unseemly. He was raised with honour.

Omniscient he may think himself, the cocky little bugger, but he is so _ignorant_. Ignorant to the damage his eating habits, or lack thereof, cause. Ignorant to L’s deception. Ignorant to most all of his issues. Ignorant to who he used to be - or rather, who he still is, somewhere deep within his miserable being. They say ignorance is bliss, no? Well, for Light, that might be the case. There are certain things he may, perhaps, prefer to remain ignorant of.

Oh, now, power! Power and control he craves more than anything else in this vast universe. Within him festers a yearning, a longing, a _need_ to feel powerful. With time, this urge has grown and grown in its intensity, and Light gladly fosters it. Anything that gives him a sense of power will he cling onto in desperation, claiming it as a security blanket of sorts. Once he finds something that makes him feel powerful, it is almost impossible to pry him from its grip. _Almost_.

Alas, at this moment, he is utterly powerless. He lies in death’s throes, just waiting for the time to come. He's overwrought. Disconsolate.

_Weak. Weak and valueless and forever flawed. A lost cause._

“It is not a heart attack,” Watari announces as he steps into the room.  
“Oh, thank God!” Souichirou responds, flooded with relief.  
“I found no signs of infection, either,” the older man announces as he makes his way over to his patient. “Any change in symptoms, Yagami-kun?”  
Light's hushed sobs and heavy breaths are his only response.  
“Yagami-kun?” Watari repeats.  
Nothing.  
“Light, can you hear us?” Souichirou questions.  
Not a peep.  
“Light-kun?” L calls out.  
“...C-can you make it stop?” Light fumbles for words. He just wants everything to _stop_!  
“If I can determine the cause, certainly,” Watari vows. “Now, if you would please lend me your hand; I need to take your pulse.”  
Timorously, Light offers up his unsteady right hand. Watari soon attaches an oximeter to his index finger.  
“Light, you’re bleeding!” Souichirou announces with alarm.  
“...I know,” his son replies under his breath.  
L and Watari exchange a knowing glance. The elder of the two breaks the eye contact, again focusing his gaze on the oximeter. The screen displays the characters '_134 BPM_'.  
“Tachycardia,” Watari relays to his adoptee in their native tongue of English.  
“I noticed that, too,” L reveals likewise. "What’s it suggest?”  
“It could suggest a multitude of ailments,” the older man mutters. “Though, this panicked state of his seems, to me, the most logical explanation.”  
“Well, clearly!” L scoffs.  
“Yagami-kun,” Watari switches back to Japanese, “are you still experiencing chest pain?”  
“Y-yes.”  
“Whereabouts?”  
Light places a quivering hand over the centre of his chest.  
“Any pain elsewhere on the body?”  
He shakes his head.  
“Have you been experiencing nausea or vomiting?”  
“...Yes,” he replies tearily, after some hesitation.  
“Nausea, vomiting, or both?”  
“U-um, vomiting.”  
“When was this?” the chief buts in.  
“Not long ago,” his son splutters.  
“You need to be in the hospital!" Souichirou exclaims. “Chest pain and vomiting can be signs of a fatal condition!”  
Upon hearing this utterance, Light becomes truly _hysterical_. He lets out irrational near-yells of stuttered, unidentifiable phrases, wailing and sobbing uncontrollably. That unbidden twinge of pity flares up in L’s chest once more, making the detective feel uncharacteristically ill at ease.  
“Stop this childish nonsense!” the chief orders. “Come to the hospital with me, Light.”  
“With all due respect, Sir,” Watari begins, "I am perfectly capable of treating your son. His blood sample has indicated to me no serious abnormalities, save for electrolyte imbalances and metabolic disturbances, which I believe are caused by recent vomiting. Naught leads me to believe an urgent hospital visit is necessary.”  
Applying a false front of phlegmatism, Souichirou nods tepidly, burying his doubt. Watari removes the oximeter from Light’s finger and returns it to his briefcase, before pulling out another device.  
“You will need to remove your jacket again,” he instructs.  
“Why?” Light asks.  
“I need to check your blood pressure.”  
“No.”  
“The least you can do is be co-operative!” the chief addresses his son.  
Light merely pules in reply. He knows he shouldn’t be defiant, but it just keeps shouting at him…

_You’re going to take your flannel off in front of everyone again? Anyone would think you a lowly harlot, stripping down with so little resistance! Keep it on, don’t be a tart. Retain at least some degree of decency before you die. Time is a-ticking!_

“Light-kun, please. Simmer down, now.”  
Oh, that dulcifying voice of L's: sui generis, axiomatically ameliorated and refined, almost hypnotising - it’s nice enough to lull Light to sleep, and certainly silvery enough to moderately allay his disconcertment. Yet, so few words are not enough to induce the desired response; this much L is fully aware of.  
“Li~ght-kun?”  
“...Yes?”  
“Light-kun must remove his flannel.”  
“I don’t wa-want to.”  
“He must. Nobody is going to scorn him.”  
Light wishes L would break character and stop speaking like some gauche bohemian without even a vestige of savoir-faire! Sighing in irritation, he holds his tongue and undoes his buttons with trembling hands. He ignores the screaming in his head, letting the garment fall off his shoulders and hang at his wrists.  
“Thank you,” Watari says with a polite smile.  
Light doesn't smile back, half-heartedly attempting to wipe away his tears for good. His attempt is unsuccessful; more tears come, leaving him with naught but messy, black streaks on his hand, signifying his failure. A failure is all he’ll ever be; he realised that a long time ago. And now, he'll never have the chance to live up to his parents’ expectations; he will never be the perfect son they've so desperately coveted their entire lives. The son of Yagami Souichirou and Sachiko should face death with dignity, composure, and bravery, but instead, he sits on his arse and bawls his eyes out.

_You’re going to die a failure. A pitiful, wretched excuse for a human being. You know what’s more, Light? You’re going to die with food in your stomach. Funny that! Have you forgotten failures don't deserve food? Whatever pleases your father and Ryuzaki, eh? Oh, don’t deny it, now. You’ve become quite the little doxy, haven’t you? You’ll do anything to please Ryuzaki. Because you’ve looked up to him ever since you were a child, isn’t that right? You’re so afraid of disappointing your icon and being condemned that you let him besmirch you. You lie down and let him taint your purity. You're nothing but a meritless moll. Be honest; you wouldn’t even resist if he pinned you to this settee right this instant, in front of everyone, and had his w-_

“I know!”  
“Don’t you dare shout at me, Light,” his father cautions.

_Shit_, again, Light curses himself out, _did I say that aloud_?

“I-I didn’t m-mean to, I-”  
“Fret not, Yagami-kun,” Watari interposes. “We understand you must be frightened.”  
“I’m not s-scared.”  
“That’s right,” Souichirou agrees. “I’ve never known Light to be scared of anything. Nor have I ever known him to act quite so disrespectful!”  
“I didn’t mean it,” his son insists.  
“What it is you meant to say, then?”  
“I do not think this is an appropriate time for family quarrels. Light-kun ails still, and we are yet to ascertain the cause.”  
L stays in character, maintaining a flawless affectation of apathy, despite the urge to get up and drive the hindrance that is the chief out of the room. That man has no idea how to comfort anyone, let alone his own child! If it were up to L, Souichirou would be long gone, and Light would be snuggled up in L’s lap, having silky words whispered into his ear. L supposes that'll have to come later. In good time, he’ll have everything the way he wills it.  
“Ryuzaki is right,” Watari announces. “Yagami-kun, your arm, please.”  
Without much thought, Light extends his left arm the furthest he can.  
“Now, this may cause some discomfort.”  
“Okay.”  
He prepares himself for further pain as Watari fastens another band around his upper arm. Light’s surprised it fits.

_I need to lose at least ten more pounds_, he thinks. _Maybe then I won’t look so grotesque_.

_That’s the spirit!_

He almost grins at the approval after what feels like æons of relentless derision. Still, he swiftly stops himself, a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth being the only indication of anything going awry. In an instant, his attention is pulled towards his arm once again. Watari was right; it is starting to hurt.  
“It hurts,” the teenager sobs.  
“My sincerest apologies. Would you like me to stop for a little while?”  
“N-no, I c-can take it.”  
The older man nods, continuing to tighten the cuff. Light’s arm twitches, but he sinks his canines into his inner lower lip, enduring the pain. He can take this. He’s strong enough. After all, he _has_ endured worse - namely four days of starvation. The pain, both physical and emotional, he experienced during those four days was immense, and unlike any he’d felt before. Though, arguably, it was better than his current pain. Better than the agony of knowing he’ll die a disappointment. Better than the agony of knowing he never contributed a single thing of worth towards this investigation; he’s so careless, so _useless, so worthless, so-_  
“Ow!” he exclaims.  
“Is it too tight?” Watari questions.  
“Yes.”  
“Do you think you can endure it for a little longer?”  
“I-I-”  
“Of course he can,” Souichirou answers.  
“Can you, Yagami-kun?”  
“Yes,” Light replies, deferring to his father.  
He hangs his head and averts his eyes, attempting to hide from the judgmental gazes he feels piercing through him. His father is right, as always; he can take this. No, he can’t; it’s excruciating, but he convinces himself otherwise. He can’t show weakness in front of his father, now can he? Biting back protests, he valiantly withstands everything, until Watari finally loosens the cuff. Light lets out a sigh of relief as his arm tingles yet again.  
“Well,” Watari begins as he returns the device to his kit, “everything seems normal. You are healthy enough, at least physically,” he continues, trying to placate his patient.  
“‘Healthy enough’?” Souichirou inquires.  
“Things are likely to change if these dangerous habits of his continue.”  
“What habits?”  
“No!” Light screams, earning everyone’s attention.  
“Light-kun-”  
“_No_…”  
"Light, what’s wrong?” the chief asks, perplexed by the mention of these supposed 'habits'.  
“I do not think you will receive a rational response, Sir,” Watari says, sighing as he watches the shuddering teenager cover himself back up.  
“If he isn’t ill, what ails him?”  
“Your son’s condition is rather more complex than any physical illness, I am afraid.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“At present, some TLC may be beneficial.”  
“That’s unneeded if there’s nothing wrong with him,” Souichirou says dismissively. “He’s perfectly capable of calming himself down; he’s just attention-seeking again.”  
Watari sighs in disgruntlement. '_Attention-seeking_'?  
“Has he been like this before?” he asks L in French.  
“Light, you mean?” his adoptee responds likewise.  
“Who else?”  
“Once before, yes,” he discloses, recalling Light's last attack.  
“How did you calm him?” Watari queries.  
“...I held him,” L answers slowly, having ample qualms about disclosing this. He doesn't know how much Watari has seen.  
“You did what‽”  
“Oh, come on, is it _that_ surprising!? Evidently, he receives no physical affection from his family.”  
“I warn you, L, don't push him too far. He is fragile.”  
“He’ll cope.”  
“Do you think I haven't seen his fresh Russell’s signs?” Watari almost hisses. “You're dealing with an especially vulnerable _teenager_.”  
“I know it’s him, Tari,” L sighs. “I just need enough evidence to make a conviction.”  
“Be careful,” the older man advises. "Your usual tricks could be detrimental to his already dwindling mental health.”  
“A small price to pay for another murderer behind bars,” his adoptee retorts.  
“Look at him, L! He is a distraught child.”  
“That’s what he wants you to think.”  
“Honestly…” Watari tuts. “That aside, I believe I have reached a conclusion.”  
“Anxiety, obviously.”  
“The chest pain was merely the trigger,” he elaborates. “It was not a result of the attack.”  
“And the chest pain's cause...?”  
“Heartburn, I should think. Gastric acid in his oesophagus.”  
“Not oesophageal rupture?”  
“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “If that were the case, he would be screaming in agony.”  
“Makes sense.”  
“How long ago did he…?”  
“Thirty minutes, at most.”  
“Did you interrupt him?”  
“Of course I did, as soon as I realised what he was doing.”  
“I see. Keep an eye on him, and if he complains of pain in the neck, lower jaw, back, or left arm, it is imperative you ring me straight away.”  
“Yes, yes, you’ve taught me about heart attacks.”  
“He is putting a lot of strain on his heart, not to mention frequently depleting his electrolytes. A cardiac issue is not out of the question. There is only so much I can ascertain without having the resources to perform an ECG.”  
“Right.”  
“What I suggest is rest. We don't want to stress him further; more than anything else at present, he needs comfort and reassurance. I trust you will be more than comfortable to provide suchlike?”  
“You know I am.”  
“I meant what I said, L. Do be careful with him; he is not as tough as he may seem. You very well may break him.”  
“That is rather the point.”  
“You are walking a very fine line.”  
“I know what I’m doing.”  
“That's what frightens me most about this.” Again, Watari sighs. “You know exactly what you're doing.”  
“I did learn from the best, after all,” L ripostes.  
“And we both know how he ended up.”  
“He was insane!” the detective snaps. “A murderer!”  
“...Why does he jump when you raise your voice?” Watari questions, wry-faced.  
“What? Who?”  
“Yagami-kun.”  
“He flinched?” L glimpses at Light, who, presently, receives inefficacious words of stern solace from his father.  
“The poor lad jumped out of his skin.”  
“You’re sure? He is shaking a lot.”  
“What have you been doing to him?”  
“I haven’t hit him, if that’s what you mean,” L defends himself. “I would never.” He can bring himself to do a lot of things...but not _that_.  
“No, I know,” his handler utters in response. “You are not like your..._pedagogue_.”  
“‘Pedagogue’?” the detective scoffs. “Don’t flatter him. He didn't teach me. I learned.”  
“As you have learnt so much,” Watari says with a hint of sarcasm, “I propose you take over from the chief now.”  
“See what I mean, though?” L asks. “That man's out of his depth. I bet he’s never so much as hugged his son.”  
“That makes him all the more susceptible.”  
“And I quite like him that way.”  
L glares coldly at Watari, whose expression remains warm nonetheless. He truly hasn't changed, has he? Indeed, Watari is the closest thing to a father L has ever had. Speaking of fathers, L decides he needs to separate the pair next to him, for Souichirou is surely worsening Light’s condition, and by the looks of things, has been doing so for quite a while.  
“Light-kun?” the young detective utters.  
“What‽” Light snaps, pulled away from his conversation.  
“Watari suggests we retire for the night. I have been given instructions on how to treat Light-kun further.”  
“But there’s nothing wrong with him!” The chief stands firm.  
“Physically, maybe so,” L sighs, with a hint of emotion slipping through his stolid mask, “but have you taken your son’s mental health into consideration?”  
“My son is not mental!”  
“I never implied he was.”  
“Shut up!” Light interjects, hoping to break up any impending arguments.  
“...Light, I’ve just about had it with your disrespect,” Souichirou claims. “You best apologise right this instant!”  
“Just...” his exhausted son begins, “just shut up! B-both o-of you.”  
“I mean it, Light, stop acting like a child. What’s gotten into you?”  
The brunet boy holds his tongue. Slight sobs are the only noises permeating the room.  
“Apologise,” Souichirou orders once more.  
“No,” Light replies, as stubborn as ever.  
“Light-kun need not apologise,” L says. “He has done nothing wrong.”  
“Ryuzaki, I’m sorry about my son’s behaviour tonight. He’s acting up for attention.”

_And he shall receive it in abundance, once we are alone_.

“No need for apologies,” L maintains. “Light-kun and I must take our leave now.”  
“He’s not leaving until he apologises for his behaviour,” the chief asserts.  
“I-” Light begins.  
“Light-kun is not going to apologise,” L interrupts.  
“I’m sorry, Ryuzaki, but that’s not your decision to make.”  
“It became apparent to me a good while ago that Light-kun simply does not apologise.”  
“Shut your m-mouth,” the teenager rejoins.  
“Light!” his father exclaims.  
“Everyone,” Watari interposes, “I think we are done here. Yagami-kun and Ryuzaki should return to their quarters. Yagami-san, if it's not too much trouble, may I have a word?”  
“...Of course,” Souichirou affirms.  
“In private, Sir,” Watari adds.

The chief nods. L gets the memo.

Gracelessly, he hops down from his perch, planting his feet on the cool, dark, laminated floorboards.  
“Light-kun?”  
Light vacillates for a moment, but eventually rises, stumbling slightly as he does so. L takes a step forward, preparing to catch his younger, should he lose his footing. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Light keeps his balance, despite dizziness. For once, he leads the way, with his bashful and blurred gaze fixated on the floor, wanting to remove himself from his father’s company as soon as possible. He cannot stand this disapproval any longer; it seems a miracle his crying is as soft as it is. Being viewed so dimly by the man he's idolised and worked so hard to impress his entire life is beyond devastating! But perfect sons aren't weak, so he holds his emotions back. He’s suppressing so much, though he’s used to this by now. As soon as L closes the door behind them, the brunet throws a hand over his own mouth to subdue an unbefitting wail. He can’t have his father hearing, can he? Taking a deep breath, he wipes away the tears that stream down his face, worsening the black marks on his hand and fingers. No matter, mascara easily washes off; it's harder to recover from damaged amour propre - he’s learnt that the hard way. Regardless, he advances, with L following close behind. The detective so badly wants to pounce upon his prey...now is the perfect chance, he has his back turned. Ah, but he'll wait until they're alone. Behind locked doors, L can get away with anything upon which he sets his heart. Luckily, the door to their quarters is just ahead, and L has his heart set upon shattering the ever so vulnerable little murderer at his side. Even murderers aren't immune to life’s woes, to feelings which are so easily exploited by someone skilled enough - and L is plenty skilled, having years of experience with petty criminals and heinous serial killers under his belt, all of which he shattered, given time. One simple, effective plan is all he needs to achieve victory.

L is determined to achieve his victory, as always.

Once they're locked inside their quarters, Light, weeping still, takes a few steps backwards, creating a comfortable distance between him and his companion. He lets his gaze wander upwards, and is met with the sight of L stretching to straighten out his back. How Light had gawked the first time he saw L do this! He almost couldn’t believe his eyes. That was the moment he realised Ryuzaki truly is nothing more than a carefully crafted charade. It seems odd to Light that at one point, Ryuzaki was all he knew of L. His father and the rest of the Task Force must be just as ignorant as he once was. He thinks he prefers it that way; there's something about being the only one on the investigation to have seen L’s true self that thrills him, something that makes him feel somewhat special.

L takes a minute to adjust to the drastic change in posture, as is customary. Soon, though, he's back to his usual self, and gazing into his younger’s tearful eyes. _Such a helpless child_, he cogitates. It's high time he treated le malade imaginaire.  
“Sit,” he instructs, taking Light’s hands into his.  
A mere three and a half seconds pass before the brunet breaks his elder’s grip, scampering away skittishly.  
“Please?” L asks again, mellowing his tone.  
In turn, Light takes another step backwards, evoking a curious sense of déjà vu within his elder.  
“I only wish to ease your suffering, my darling. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Won't you sit with me?”  
Mesmerised by these words, Light nods. There is nothing he wants more than to let himself fall into L’s arms…

_Don’t give in, Light. You know you can’t trust him; he’ll only defile you. Oh, but that’s what you want, isn’t it? To be at his mercy, to let him take every last remnant of innocence you have left. You ought to be ashamed of these meretricious thoughts! You know how he is. He will hurt you. Don’t you dare entrust yourself to him._

“Please?” L repeats, earning Light’s full attention with a plea that sounds so sincere.  
“D-don’t beg me, please," diffidently, the brunet speaks through his tears.  
“There is a difference between begging and asking politely, my pet,” his elder says with a slight chuckle.  
“...I’m scared.”  
“Are you still in pain?”  
“Yes.”  
“Dear, please, come here. You know I could never hurt you, don't you?”  
“You promise?” Light says so quietly L barely picks up his words.  
“I promise you. Trust me.”

Light wants to trust him, he really does. But he knows he can’t, not after what he’s been put through at his hand. Not after he was imprisoned and enfeebled, not after he was imperilled and mentally scarred by his own father acting on L’s orders, and certainly not after the nights he was threatened, disempowered, and left bruised. One side of Light is obstinate, traumatised, and leery; this is the side that hearkens to the ever-present voice within his head and takes its word as nothing but gospel. The other side of Light is curious, long-repressed, and ignoble; this is the side that screams for him to give himself over to this magnate, the man he has spent most of his teen years looking up to, someone he shouldn't disappoint nor disillusion.

Yet, seldom does he pay much heed to his logical side these days.

Comfort, for someone as deprived of it as Light, is the ultimate temptation; it's a decoy made all the more enticing in times of dejection. Add a deft tongue’s sugar-coated spiels into the mix, and, well, there's a recipe for disaster. Thus, Light foolishly bites the bait, as usual, allowing L to pull him into his lap. L’s fingers are soon tangled amidst brunet locks, and Light’s breath catches as he leans against his elder.  
“My heart!” the boy chokes out, throwing a hand over his chest.  
L brings a gentle hand to his younger’s, then softly swats it away to press his own against the teenager’s heart. It's palpitating.  
“It’s alright, my dear,” the detective reassures as he takes his hand away. “Happens when you’re overwrought.”  
“I-I’m not o-overwrought,” Light sobs.  
“Don’t lie to yourself.”  
The teenager's attempt to reply is rudely cut off by a sudden bout of tears. L hugs him tighter as he weeps, combing his supple fingers through brunet locks. _Still so soft_, L marvels, _he has such lovely hair_. The detective wonders, briefly, if he should brush his own more often. Hair is not what's important, he reminds himself, what's important is the closure of the Kira case. He just needs evidence: something, _anything_, to corroborate his theories. Better yet, a confession. 

And he knows how to extract confessions.

His guileful fingers make their way down to Light’s mandible, onto which they clasp, gently pushing his face away from the chest against which it rests. The brunet lets himself be guided, soon finding himself eye to eye with L. In L’s ever-so-slightly-narrowed tenebrous orbs, Light makes out a surfeit of emotions: solicitude, intrigue, craving, and...rancour? Rancour or not, he doesn't have much time to study it, as pale hands force him to bow his head. His gaze tumbles downwards, and he finds himself fixating on the detective’s jutting collarbones. A pang of mild guilt fills him when he notices that he’s stained L’s shirt again, but his attention is soon drawn towards the fingers in his hair that brush his forelocks back, then the lips that delicately peck his forehead. Spontaneously, a deep sigh forces its way from his lips. Entranced by the sensation of butterflies manifesting inside his stomach, he freezes as L caresses his right cheek and kisses his left, licking away a tear, and with it some mascara. Those two chaste, compassionate kisses are enough to cease Light’s bawling, though he doesn’t notice, preoccupied with trying to figure out what it is he’s feeling. His anxiety has been replaced by a similar-but-not-quite-the-same feeling in his gut: something not unlike jealousy, rather like guilt, akin to nausea, but...different. Fingers, frigid in external temperature but so warm in intent, untangle themselves from his hair and trail downwards, caressing his left cheek. With his face in L’s hands, Light barely notices how he’s being pulled nearer until their foreheads are pressed together.

When the realisation dawns upon him, his eyes widen.

The elder of the two suppresses a smirk as his left hand wanders into his younger’s silky tresses. Light's still in shock, so no protests pass his lips. Oh, it’s no fun when he’s not resisting, L thinks. Whether he resists or not is of little matter, nothing will deter L from his plan, but he does so love fighters. These days, he so easily subjugates his suspect; it’s such a shame. Oh, well. It's time to shock him out of his shock. At the speed L leans in, Light has hardly any time to flinch before their lips collide. Soon, Light's panic wears off, and he kittenishly kisses back with arrant ardour, draping his arms over the detective’s shoulders. In response, L strokes his younger’s hair gently, and the fingers of his right hand move downwards to wander across the teenager’s lower jaw. Light whimpers into the passionate kiss, driven woozy and giddy by these new and intense feelings. When he runs out of breath, L pulls away, leaning into the back of the settee. Flustered, and with cheeks the colour of poppies, Light mewls, yearning for more. He again pushes his forehead against L’s, with a little too much force, seeking plaudits in any form. An alembicated smirk is L’s only response as he stares into his younger’s eyes. This boy is utterly _intoxicated_, enmeshed within L’s web. He is falling so deep into his trap, as planned out from the very beginning. Things are finally taking a toll on him, at such long last.  
“Does your chest still hurt, Pet?”  
Light nods, coyly, in silent affirmation.  
“You’ve burnt your gullet.”  
His lustrous eyes dart downwards as he bows his head. “...How am I to be punished?” he asks in a hushed voice.  
“You aren’t,” L assures him.  
“Don’t I deserve punishment for hurting myself?” the brunet mumbles.  
“No, Darling, of course not! I’m not going to punish you for being ill.”  
“I’m not ill.”  
“Your brain is ill.”  
“It is not!”  
“What you’re doing is not normal, nor is it healthy. How many times have I told you this? Are you seriously still in denial?” dissembling himself, L hardens his mawkish tone with that last question.  
“I’m sane,” his younger insists fervently. “Stop imposing these things upon me to make me fit Kira’s profile.”  
“Honestly, why do I even bother?” L questions coldly. “I could turn a blind eye. I could let you starve yourself like you did before I caught on, but I _care_ about you, Light. I don’t want to let you hurt yourself.”  
“I didn’t mean to hurt myself,” Light replies under his breath. “This has never happened before.”  
“You do understand that you’re slowly killing yourself, right?”  
“I'm not killing myself. I’m careful.”  
“How exactly are you careful? Do enlighten me.”  
“...I don't do it that often,” he raises his voice a little. “Not since before my confinement.”  
“Oft or not, it is damaging. Dearest, do you want to rupture your oesophagus and die?”  
“No,” he replies shakily.  
“Do you binge?” L asks curtly.  
“Stop it,” his younger commands as his breath fluctuates.  
“Tell me, Light. All I want is to help you.” L's harsh grilling morphs into counterfeit concern within a matter of seconds.  
“Stop,” Light says in a tremorous voice. “You’re upsetting me.”  
“Will you answer my last question?” L tries a different approach, donning his silver tongue.  
“No.”  
“...I have my suspicions. But you must know I can’t diagnose you, my dear.”  
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”  
“Oh, I really have upset you, haven’t I?” he goads his younger with a remorseful tone.  
“You have,” Light says truthfully.  
“You should look at me when I’m talking to you.”  
Remorse unexpectedly mutates into belligerence. L's sinister tone elicits fear. Apprehensively, Light obliges. Unexpectedly, L smiles at him.  
“Good boy,” he recompenses Light for his near-immediate obedience, pecking his cheek.  
“...I don’t deserve your kisses,” the brunet sighs heavily.  
“Why not?”  
“I just don’t.”  
“You deserved a reward for being good.”  
“I haven’t been good,” Light refutes.  
“I think it was very meritorious of you to open up to me,” the elder of the two commends.  
“No,” is Light's only reply.  
“You think otherwise?”  
“What I deserve is punishment,” he mutters.  
“What kind of punishment?” L queries.  
“I deserve to starve.”  
“No, you don't.”  
In the blink of an eye, he brushes Light’s fringe away and leans forward to lay another kiss upon his forehead, hugging him tightly as he does so.  
“Stop it,” Light objects, pulling away to rest his head against L’s shoulder.  
“I won’t stop,” L refuses. “Unless you say you don’t like it, I’ll kiss you all I like.”  
“But I don’t deserve it!” his younger cries.  
“Hush, I can’t bear hearing you say that,” the detective soothes. “You deserve nothing but adoration right now.”  
“You’ve punished me for purging before. Anything you deem appropriate, I’ll accept.”  
“I punished you for disobedience and breaking your promise. Technically, you never made a second promise, and I have no right to punish you for having a disorder.”  
“I’m not disordered!” Light reiterates.

L’s tight grip loosens. A saprophagous, sinking feeling fills the brunet.

“Look at me.” All warmth disappears from L's voice; these three words are bitter and austere.  
Light understands, wholeheartedly, that this is an order he cannot afford to refuse. Though he wants to protect himself from undeserved pecks and praise, he's intimidated into acquiescence.  
“I never want you to take your eyes off of me,” his elder professes.  
“You like them a lot,” Light muses.  
“They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”  
“Not yet."  
“You have always been beautiful,” L declares.  
“That’s not true,” Light ripostes.  
“It’s what I see,” the ebony-haired man says softly. “And what I’m sure many others see, as well.”  
The brunet heaves another sigh. “I wish I could see what you see in me.”  
“I have with me,” L begins, smirking, “in my lap, a brilliant young man. He is bright and, when he wants to be, well-mannered. He might be a bit of a puritan, yes, yet I find his naïveté so fetching. He is proud and very quick to defend his innocence. He has a strong sense of justice, strives to follow in his father’s footsteps, and is a valued member of the investigation. Despite all he has suffered, he remains stable enough and does his job wonderfully. In fact, I think he is the most resilient boy I know. Truly, he is beautiful.”

_And so gullible_.

“...You’re going to make me cry again,” Light expresses.  
“Ah, sorry, my dear. But that’s how I see you.”  
“I-it’s...you’re exaggerating, surely?”  
“Not one detail.”  
“...Thank you.”  
“What're you thanking me for?”  
“Making me feel like I have worth.”  
“Darling, you are valued by so many. I mean it; ask anyone who knows you. Please, remember you’re wanted here.”  
Such kind words leave Light flabbergasted. Had they come from anybody else’s mouth he would've never believed them, but since they belong to L, someone so admirably frank in Light’s eyes, he takes them straight to heart. In a matter of seconds, more tears start spilling.  
“Oh, Dear,” promptly, Light is pulled into another tight embrace, “please, don’t cry.”  
“That was...so kind of you to say,” he speaks against L’s shoulder, his words muffled to the point of near-inaudibility.  
“I speak only the truth. Believe me, my darling, you're worth more than you think.”  
Pangs of that funny, fluttery feeling again invade Light's tummy, quickening his heart rate and disrupting his breathing. What is this sensation? Unlike jealousy, it doesn't incite him. Unlike guilt, it doesn't make him feel sick. Rather, it is pleasant, warm, and consoling - much like L at present. As his younger weeps, he whispers occasional, glib reminders into his ear, reassuring and relieving him.

Meanwhile, in Watari’s quarters, the atmosphere could not be more different.

“Yagami-san, take a seat,” the older man instructs.  
“I think I would prefer to stand,” Souichirou replies.  
“Please, do sit down. This may be hard for you to take.”  
“...Is it to do with my son?”  
“I am afraid so, Sir.”  
With a slight bow of the head, the chief takes Watari’s advice and ambles over to the black settee. As he takes a seat, he clasps his hands in his lap.  
“May I ask a few questions?”  
“Of course,” the chief confirms.  
“Thank you, Sir. Now, I wonder, could you tell me how your son’s eating habits are?” Watari gets straight to the point.  
“Normal,” Souichirou responds, a little befuddled by this inquiry.  
“Normal?”  
“As far as I can tell, yes.”  
“He never skips meals or goes long periods without eating?”  
“Not to my knowledge. If he does, Sachiko has never mentioned it to me.”  
“Does he often use the bathroom during or soon after meals?”  
“No, he remains seated throughout. Actually, now that you mention it, I did notice...let's see,” he thinks back, “roughly a year ago, that he started retreating upstairs soon after. He said he wanted to focus on his studies.”  
“Do you ever notice abrasions on his knuckles?” Watari keeps pressing for answers.  
“All the time,” Souichirou rejoins. “In fact, he has them right now.”  
“And you have not thought to question how he obtained those abrasions?”  
“I did, at first,” he reveals, unclasping his hands.  
“What did he say?” Watari asks.  
“That he kept scraping them at school.”  
“And you believed him?”  
“Why shouldn’t I?” Souichirou furrows his brow, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “I did not raise a liar.”  
“Yagami-san...” his elder all but sighs, “this may be distressing to hear, but forasmuch as you are his father and he is still a minor, I feel you have a right to know. I believe your son suffers from an eating disorder - most likely either anorexia nervosa or, perhaps, bulimia nervosa.”

Souichirou’s eyes flash with bewilderment. He tenses up, heart skipping a beat.

“What?” he asks, lowering his voice.  
“I have little doubt that both the abrasions on his knuckles and his chest pain resulted from self-induced vomiting.”  
“There must be some mistake,” the chief posits. His son is not _disordered_!  
“I am sorry, Sir,” Watari says regretfully. “I wish that was the case. The signs are all present.”  
“N-no, I’m afraid there simply has to be a mistake,” Souichirou repeats. “My son does not have a disorder.”  
“You cannot dispute facts, Yagami-san. His blood sample revealed ample signs of malnutrition, including many vitamin and mineral deficiencies, and, as aforesaid, electrolyte imbalances and metabolic disturbances. He admitted to recent vomiting and has telltale Russell’s signs. As a doctor, I cannot ignore the evidence staring me straight in the face.”  
“You said he was healthy enough,” the chief points out.  
“I did not wish to confront him amidst his panic attack for fear of worsening his hysteria,” the older man admits to his untruth.  
“My son is not having attacks!” Souichirou raises his voice. “I didn't raise a lunatic.”  
“He, most certainly, is not a lunatic. He is afflicted by illnesses beyond his control-”  
“It’s not beyond his control; he’s pulled this stunt before! The crying, the shaking, we went through it all during...the incident following his confinement. He ended up being fine in the end, just acting up for attention. Scared Misa and I half to death, that kid did.”  
“...I don't suppose he's ever been psychiatrically evaluated?”  
“Of course not!”  
“Pursuing cognitive behavioural therapy for him would be in your best interests.”  
“You’re joking!”  
Watari has to refrain from grimacing. “Quite the contrary.”  
“Listen, my son is and always has been sound of mind. All this talk of panic attacks and anorexia, utter dross! He is perfectly normal.”  
“Sir, mental illness does not make one abnormal-”  
“Is this what I’m missing work for? To be told that my son is a freak?”  
“Beyond his ailments, I am sure he is normal. Sir, you must realise that, much like physical illness, mental illness can be fatal. Anorexia nervosa has the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disorder. Can you understand why I am concerned?”  
“Light eats normally; he just had dinner with us!”  
“Which I believe he promptly regurgitated.”  
“What are you saying? That’s disgusting!”  
“Perhaps, but it is more common than you might think, especially among those your son’s age. Whether you like it or not, Sir, he needs professional help.”  
“...I will take my leave now,” the chief announces, glowering as he rises to his feet.  
“As you wish.” Watari bows, comme il faut on the outside.  
Seething, Souichirou storms off with his heart throbbing in his flushed ears. He fumbles with the door handle for a few seconds, clumsy with rage, before flouncing out of the room. He slams the door shut, then breathes deeply and heavily as he leans against the wall with his head in his hands. He needs a while to process what he’s just been told.

“Still hurting?” L queries gently.  
“No,” Light says, his voice still muffled by his elder’s shoulder. “It’s stopped now.”  
“You don’t hurt anywhere else?”  
“...Not physically.”  
“You’re sure you don’t want help? Believe me, Dear, it would do you good.”  
“I don’t need it,” he breathes. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”  
“Well, I can't force you,” his elder sighs. “But, please, mull over it.”  
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”  
“As you wish, Pet.”  
“...You’re shivering, you know,” the brunet points out.  
“I’m cold,” L divulges. “You’re helping, though.”  
“Do you wear this outfit all year round?”  
“These are Ryuzaki’s garments, Dear,” he says through unbidden chuckles.  
“What?”  
“Had he been in his right mind, perhaps he may have chosen something a tad warmer,” he all but snarls.  
“You’ll catch the death, put the heating on.”  
“Was that a threat?”  
“Shut up.”  
“Hmm...18.5%.”  
“What‽”  
Almost instantly, Light pulls away from L’s shoulder to look him in the eye once more.  
“Don’t gape at me with those puppy-dog eyes,” the elder of the two patronises. “You know what I mean.”  
“But...but you’ve upped me by 11.5%!”  
“Indeed, I have.”  
“Why‽ I’ve done nothing to war-”

A sudden knock upon the door interrupts their incipient argument.

They share a puzzled look. L releases Light from his hold, then signals for his younger to get up. Obediently, the brunet crawls out of L’s lap and takes a few curious steps towards the door. L follows suit, soon taking the lead. Abruptly, he puts himself on his guard, bending his back to get in character for their visitor. An equally wary Light watches attentively as L pulls the key from his back pocket. He unlocks the door and opens it ever so slightly, just enough to see the person on the other side. Immediately, they state their intent.  
“I want to speak to my son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a lot longer than first intended...
> 
> Sorry for leaving y'all on another cliffhanger. With any luck, the update schedule should become regular again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been over a month, hasn't it? I really have no excuse other than writer's block and a brief depressive spell. I lost my motivation, but I'm writing again now. I do apologise for the wait, thank you for bearing with me.

As soon as his father's utterance catches his ear, Light's stomach knots.

_What could he possibly want to talk about?_, he asks himself. _Oh no, he’s going to lecture me about attention-seeking again, isn’t he? I look a state; I haven’t even washed my face_!

With contrived courtesy, L pipes up. “Do come in,” he says as flatly as he can manage, opening the door fully for their guest.  
Souichirou steps inside, taking in the sight before him: Light, with scarlet-stained cheeks, clasped hands, slouched shoulders, and a slightly bowed head. Is he _deferring_? Whom to? This is all so unnervingly aberrant, for the chief has never known his son to act quite so miserable.  
“You may sit,” L breaks the fraught silence.  
“R-right.” Light nods, forcing a smile.  
Wordless, Souichirou follows his son over to the settee, then takes a seat. Light squeezes in next to him and L, again, plants his feet on the settee’s arm. Light has to stop himself rolling his eyes at the sight. Studying the pair to his right, L nibbles on a thumbnail. The atmosphere is tense; all three parties lie in wait, wanting each other to break the silence. L doesn’t wish to break character; thus, he stays quiet. Light is too nervous to speak first, and Souichirou cannot seem to find the words. His son, _disordered_? Anorexic? It cannot be, he thinks, for that’s absurd! Light's never had problems with food, Sachiko would, surely, have apprised her husband of it if he had. But what if it's true? How should the issue be approached? Oh, there's no use overthinking and wasting time. The chief takes a deep breath, then wishes himself good luck.  
“Anorexia nervosa,” he finally blurts out.

Once more, Light gets that sinking feeling.

“...What?” Light utters.  
“Watari says you’re anorexic,” the chief tells him. “Please, tell me he’s wrong.”

Light doesn’t recognise his father’s pleading tone - it's foreign, almost disturbingly so.

“Of c-course, it’s not true,” the teenager stutters, on the defence, “what makes him say that?”  
“He is a doctor,” L chimes in. “If he thinks the signs are present, I would trust his professional opinion.”  
“He didn’t know what he was talking about!” Souichirou exclaims.  
“There's no need to shout, Yagami-san. We are indoors. And, I assure you, Watari knows exactly whereof he speaks.”  
“Ryuzaki, you're by Light’s side every second of every day. How are his eating habits?”  
With that question, Light’s lips part and his russet-coloured eyes flit towards L.

They're such desperate eyes, that simply _beg_ the detective not to tell…

But this time, they’re not quite enough.

“...I make sure he eats at least twice a day,” L reveals. “He drinks an adequate amount of water. And only water.”  
“At least twice a day?” the chief questions.  
“Some days, it is a cha-”  
“Ryuzaki!” Light interrupts, noticing his heart rate accelerating at an alarming pace.  
“Let him speak,” Souichirou retorts peremptorily.  
“...Some days, it is a challenge,” L continues. “He does try to refuse food.”  
“Ryuzaki, please-”  
“Why do you refuse food, Light?” the chief cuts his son off.  
“I-I...I just...I don’t feel hungry,” Light sputters, with true terror besieging his senses.  
“My son…” the chief takes a deep breath as he, briefly, closes his eyes “...you made yourself vomit, didn’t you?” he continues, looking his son in the eye.  
“What‽” the teenager all but whimpers. “Of course not, w-why would I do that‽”  
“You _are_ telling me the truth, aren’t you?” his father rejoins.  
“I wouldn’t lie to you, I never would,” Light says breathily, hearing his own heart pounding. “You know I don’t lie.”  
“Light, I just want you to be normal.”  
“I am! I mean, you know me, I’m your son. You know I would never do those...” he hesitates, struggling to find an apt term, “_gross_ things,” he says, at last.  
“What happened to your knuckles, then?” his father questions.  
“U-um, I…” Light stutters whilst trying to think up an excuse, “...I got mad a-and I punched the wall.”  
“You did what‽” the chief, again, raises his voice, making Light flinch.  
“Light-kun did no such thing, for I would have heard him,” L adds.  
“Tell us the truth, Light,” Souichirou commands.  
“Don’t be ridiculous; I’m not lying,” Light says with joyless mirth. “You should get your hearing checked, Ryuzaki.”

That cheeky suggestion begets a glare from L.

_Now that’s definitely rancour_, Light determines.

“Light-kun knows very well that my hearing is just fine,” mordant words slide off L's tongue so brusquely; he very nearly snarls, but doesn’t allow himself to show quite so much emotion.  
“Really?” Light answers in a quivering voice. “I don’t know…you should've heard me!”

Though Light smiles, L can see the anguish in his eyes; he can identify the dissimulated pleas behind those snide comments. He could cover for him, for that _is_ what those eyes are begging for…

Though they tempt him so, he cannot. He refuses to let _another_ person compromise their own wellbeing right before his eyes, not again. Souichirou ought to know, for Light is still, legally, at least, under his care.

“I rather think it is time for Light-kun to come clean,” the detective says tonelessly.  
“Oh, c-come on,” his younger stutters, on the verge of tears, “you’re doubting me, too? Obviously, there’s been a mistake.”  
“I thought so, too, but Watari seemed adamant in his belief that you’re completely off your head,” Souichirou adds.  
“Would I lie to you, Tou-san?”  
“I'd like to think not.”  
“You might be surprised,” L comments.  
“Eh?” Light queries. “What are you getting at, Ryuzaki?”  
“If there is a problem, which Watari - a doctor - thinks there is, Light-kun should confide in his father.”

The teenager gulps. Why is L not on his side‽ He promised not to tell! If Light didn't care about how others see him, he would beg, he would even get on his knees if he had to! But, no, he cannot beg in front of his father, for he would appear weak. Weakness is a flaw. An imperfection. To his father especially, he must appear perfect: compos mentis, conceited, and capable.

“There’s no problem to speak of,” Light says disdainfully. “Only a misunderstanding.”  
“Are you sure?” his father inquires.  
“Positive. Do you not trust me?”  
“I’m not going to be mad at you if you are anorexic,” Souichirou claims, trying to soften his solemn tone.  
“Tou-san, seriously, I’m not an...” Light cannot bring himself to say that word, “I'm fine,” he continues.  
“Light-kun seems awfully defensive,” L comments.  
“Ryuzaki!” the young brunet hisses, staring daggers at the detective to his left.  
“A mere observation.”

L’s calm, soporific reply further exasperates the already seething and panicked Light, who is _this_ close to pushing him off the settee’s arm and straight to the ground. Sure, it would take all his strength, but it would be worth it just to see the rage in L’s eyes. Knowing L, he would want revenge. He would want to teach Light a lesson. Light can only imagine what would happen next...

Wait, no. No, no, no, no, no.

_No_.

Impure thoughts are not to be entertained, he reminds himself, ashamed that he’s even had to do so. They are _not_ to be entertained, especially if they involve L, which they shouldn’t. Oh, but they do! And that’s what makes them so much worse, so much harder to subdue.

“Light-kun?”  
“What‽” the brunet snaps.  
“You went quiet for a minute,” the chief states.  
“I was thinking,” his son maffles.  
“About what, I wonder?” L purrs almost _seductively_, sending frissons throughout Light’s body.  
“How ridiculous this situation really is,” the youngest replies with a nervous giggle.  
“I’m worried, Light,” the chief declares.  
“Why?” Light asks, deaf to his father's concerns. “I’m fine. You know full well I’m fine.”  
“My son, forgive my candour, but...you _do_ look thin.”  
“What?”

Light blinks, dazed and wincing as he hears shrill, mocking laughter from within the confines of his mind. This is the first time _that_ has happened.

“You look thin,” his father says once more.  
“I've always...been this way.” Light's words come out in a near-whisper, he sounds more uncertain than he would like to, though he’s barely able to hear himself over the ringing in his ears.  
“Last year...” Souichirou begins, “your mother and I noticed that you lost a lot of weight,” he continues reluctantly. “Ever since, you just seem to have been losing more and more.”  
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

That's a lie. An _obvious_ lie. At one point, in his final year of high school, he barely ate and barely slept, no wonder he dropped fifteen pounds. Come to think of it, he doesn’t quite remember what caused those nightmares...but feels that perhaps he used to. Oh, God, are things getting that bad? Is his memory really failing?

“Light?”  
Souichirou receives no response. His son stares down into his own lap with the same vacant look that L had seen earlier in his eyes, breathing heavily. Now, this is no good, is it? L can’t have another panic attack coming along and disrupting his plans.  
“Are you alright?” the chief questions, knitting his brow.  
“Yagami-san, I think you should leave,” L suggests, eyeing his younger up.  
“Not until I’m satisfied with the answer I receive,” Souichirou retorts with an unsettling ferine glint in his eyes.  
“He is not cooperating, and you cannot force him to open up,” L ripostes, trying not to grit his teeth. Those eyes are the same colour as Light's.  
“Light, answer me!” the chief commands bluntly, grabbing his son's upper right arm. A reflexive blench is the teenager's only response.  
“You will not get a response,” L replies, all but snarling, starting to lose his composure.  
“He’s ignoring us.” Souichirou shakes his head, and lets go of his distrait son's arm.  
L heaves a sigh, attempting to take deep breaths. “Not purposely.”  
“Of course he's doing it purposely!” the chief almost shouts.  
“I really think you should leave. You have work to do.”  
“I _need_ to know the truth, Ryuzaki,” he says in despair. “Is my son anorexic?"  
“He won't tell you anything you want to know, believe me.” L dodges the question. “Now, please, return to your men. I dread to think what Matsuda is getting up to in our absence.”  
“...Very well,” the older man agrees hesitantly.  
Finally talked into a departure, he stands. Before leaving, he takes one last look at his unresponsive son. Oh, he hopes what Watari said isn't true...surely, he taught his son better? Indeed, Light always seemed so confident and composed, up until recently. Things changed when he entered confinement. The chief has noticed how nervous his son is, how gaunt he has become, and how much attention he now demands. He keeps throwing these silly tantrums, wailing childishly and making people fret, only for it to turn out that he's completely fine! Souichirou thought things might get better once he was released, but they only seem to be getting worse. Now, Light is quieter; he constantly appears on his guard, and at work, he often zones out or makes foolish slip-ups. Truly, what's overcoming him? Souichirou’s only son, descending into lunacy...

The mere thought is enough to anger him.

L watches as Souichirou takes his leave. How dismissive he is of his son’s obvious ailments! Without a doubt, this dismissal is further worsening those ailments. Souichirou is tainting what is now rightfully L’s; he’s disrupting his plans, evoking uncertainty, and deepening Light’s denial. That cannot do.  
“He’s gone now,” L clarifies, fixing his gaze upon his inattentive younger.  
He receives no response; even the eye contact is unreturned. Light just stares into his lap with unnervingly vacant eyes, hyperventilating still. L realises he has to act quickly if he wants to mollify the attack. He places a hand upon the teenager's shoulder, and immediately, Light flinches. When the boy finally returns the eye contact, his gaze no longer seems so vacuous - rather, it is filled with terror.  
“Focus on your breathing,” L instructs.  
“...He knows!” Light finally speaks. Tremors beset his voice.  
“Darling, listen to me.” L adopts a more demanding tone. “Take deep breaths, okay?”  
Light makes a sincere attempt to comply, but alas, succeeds only for a couple of seconds.  
“Darling?” L repositions himself, sitting normally as he takes his younger’s hand into his. “Darling, you must listen to me, okay?”  
“J-just hold me!” the brunet chokes out. He needs to be comforted and, right now, L is his only source of suchlike.  
“How many times have I to tell you that I won't take orders?” the detective asks abruptly.  
“Please?” his younger beseeches desperately.  
“That’s better,” L praises. “Come here,” he instructs, beckoning his younger nearer.  
Without hesitation, Light crawls into L’s lap. Instantly, an arm supports his back and fingers comb his hair.  
“Breathe slowly,” L entreats in a melodious voice.  
“I-I'm trying,” Light claims, letting his shuddering frame be embraced.  
“You’re safe with me, as are your secrets,” L ensures. “You know this, right?”  
“Right.”  
“You needn’t be scared, not of me.”  
“I know.”  
“Do you really?” L questions mockingly.  
“Rea-” for a moment, the brunet's laboured breathing cuts him off, “r-really, I know.”  
“I hope you’re not lying to me.”  
“I wouldn’t,” Light claims.  
“Wouldn’t you, now?”  
“I promise. I wouldn’t.”  
“But to your father, you would?”  
“I have to.”

His voice is weak. _Pitifully_ weak.

“No, you don’t,” L corrects him. “Your disorder is not something to be ashamed of, my dear.”  
“It’s not a disorder,” Light sounds oddly forceful as he all but growls, in stark contrast to L’s ever so gentle and indulging tone.  
“What is it then?”  
“A...a problem,” the teenager sputters.  
“Is that not synonymous with ‘disorder’?” L teases, knowing he’s pushing his luck.  
“Stop it,” Light hisses.  
“Why are you so ashamed?”  
“I...I don’t know.”

_"Yes, you do. You’re ashamed of your disorder because you think yourself a god, do you not? Now, gods, as the beings who bring about illness, or in your case, death, cannot be afflicted by such trivial matters, can they? Indeed, the very idea is absurd. So you, Kira-kun, foolishly deny that these maladies afflict you, in your naïve delusion. I had you figured out a long time ago."_

...is what he would very much like to say, but he settles for the first sentence only.  
“Yes, you do.”  
“Fine,” Light concedes, realising L won’t stop interrogating him until he stops withholding the truth. “I want to be perfect,” he reveals, dodging the real question.  
“Oh?”  
“That's...” he lowers his voice to the point of near-inaudibility, “that's all I want.”

The perfect dictator, eh? 25%.

“My darling, you _are_ perfect,” L soothes.  
“Don’t lie,” Light rejoins through clenched teeth.  
“You think I’d lie to you?”  
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”  
“I promise you I’m not. In my eyes, you are perfect.”  
“I don’t believe you.”  
“You don’t have to, but I’m telling the truth.”  
“...Let’s go to bed,” he proposes, apropos of nothing.  
“It’s rather early to retire, don’t you think?” L queries with a baffled expression.  
“Well, I’m tired.”  
“Oh. Alright,” he concedes defeat.

And so, they draw their conversation to a close, gradually untangling themselves from their embrace. Light’s not tired; he only wants to take his mind off all this. He hates talking about it. For most of the night, he lies awake, pondering that one, simple remark.

_He really thinks I’m perfect_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll quit my projecting by chapter 13, I promise


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all are well during this plague. We're on complete lockdown now so I've a lot more time to write. If I ever stop posting on this account just know my weak lungs have probably succumbed to the ‘rona...

Tonight, they retire as normal, performing mundane, diurnal procedures with few words and very little fuss.

As Light’s wrist is set free, he nods slightly in silent gratitude. L also rids himself of his cuff, meaning he too will sleep tonight. Light is the first to turn his back, in order to hide the smile he is trying, and failing, to suppress. He likes nights like these, for more oft than not, L will hold him as they fall asleep together. Ah, now he’s giddy at the thought!

_Could you be more obvious, Light? Snap out of it! Quickly, now, get changed before he has a chance to ogle at you like the depraved satyr he is._

Those words wipe the smile off his face. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees _that depraved satyr_ pulling his long-sleeved white shirt over his head. Light's eyes widen at the sight of his companion’s bare back, and he quickly averts them when he feels a blush coming on. Wasting no more time, he strides over to his wardrobe. As he sheds his belt and trousers, he tries not to look at himself; he knows he's probably been gaining weight recently, what with his father _and_ L shoving food down his throat. Really, it's his own fault, he determines as he unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his shoulders.

He just _had_ to make a fuss about some harmless chest pain, didn't he?

When he's reaching into his wardrobe for a more comfortable t-shirt, cold fingertips brush against his bottom few ribs without warning. Instantly, he flinches, pressing the t-shirt he's just grabbed against his torso to conceal himself as he turns around to face the instigator.  
“You’re bruised,” L, now dressed in a clean outfit identical to that which he usually wears, states.  
“Eh?” is the only response Light can summon.  
“What’ve you been doing?” his elder asks, eyeing him up in suspicion.  
“Nothing,” Light replies with haste.  
“You’re still lying to me?”  
“You’re still interrogating me?”  
“That _is_ my métier.”  
“...C-could you please turn around?” Light apprehensively stammers, feeling incredibly exposed.  
“Certainly. _If_ you apprise me of how you obtained those bruises on your back.”  
“Just drop it, okay? It’s nothing.”  
“It’s not nothing. They’re fresh.”  
“Will you ever stop questioning everything I do, everything I say, and every single thought I have‽” the younger of the two all but yells, losing his temper.  
“How defensive you are,” L responds with ample scorn.  
“How persistent _you_ are,” his companion utters back.  
“...You've hurt yourself,” the detective says with certainty, after a slight pause.  
“Don’t be absurd!” Light is quick to defend himself.  
L is as relentless as ever. “How?”  
“I didn’t!” his younger snaps. “Not intentionally, anyway.”  
“Light, just tell me the truth.”  
“I am.”  
“Don’t drag this on all night.” L shakes his head. “Tell me how you obtained those bruises, then we may rest.”  
“I don’t even know how I got them. Honestly.”  
“...Are we going to have to start showering together?”  
“What‽”  
“You've been exercising, haven’t you? In the bath or the shower.”

_How did he figure that out‽_, Light asks himself.

“Of course I haven’t,” he says calmly. “How did you jump to that conclusion?”  
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” his elder states. “The only time I'm not by your side is when you're in the bathroom, and your injuries seem consistent with those caused by friction.”  
“...Ludicrous,” Light laughs nervously.  
“It’s not though, is it?” L practically sneers.  
“Do you really think I have the energy for exercise?” the brunet asks with affected innocuousness.  
“See, you probably don’t.” The detective looks his scantily-clad companion up and down. “And yet, you do it.”  
“I do not,” Light argues, trying to hide one leg behind the other. He gulps, knowing L can see all his fat.  
“There’s no use denying it. I’m not a fool.”  
“No, you’re not,” the younger of the two laughs again, gazing down at the floor.  
“Stop hurting yourself, Light.”  
“...You can punish me if you want.”  
“What?”  
“I probably deserve it.”  
Not long after this utterance, Light feels fingertips underneath his chin lifting his head and allowing their gazes to meet.

_He’s so pretty_, L thinks. The look in those eyes reveals his true vulnerability; it's so captivating and so _alluring_. He truly is perfect prey - and it’s high time to pounce. Slowly, L leans in, catching his younger take in a sharp breath of air before he presses their lips together. As soon as they make contact, Light gets that sensation again, the one of sheer glee and astonishment that ties his stomach in knots and makes his heart race. The kiss is short; L soon breaks it, much to Light’s dismay.  
“Not tonight, my pet. Come now, dress yourself. It’s getting late.”  
“Um...could you turn around?”  
After some hesitation, L nods then turns his back.

“I’m ready,” the teenager says after a minute or so, having thrown on his nightwear.  
Facing his younger once more, L retrieves their limp chain from the ground, already donning his own cuff. Light takes the hint and holds out his wrist. L reaches out, but as soon as he wraps his free hand around his younger’s forearm, the boy suddenly recoils, stumbling over his own feet and falling backwards onto the carpeted floor. He vocalises his discomfort, whining, mentally cursing himself for his clumsiness. He opens his eyes, which he’d shut tight when he hit his head, and…

Oh.

Of course, he brought L down with him.

L seems unfazed by this ordeal as he calmly secures the cuff around his suspect's wrist. Light notices that he’s secured it a little too tight, but in his shock, says nothing. This is bad, he thinks, but doesn't make any effort to get back up. Actually, he doesn’t object to this, having L on top of him.

Wait...

Oh no.

This really is bad! He is lying on the ground, wearing nothing but a few thin layers, L is _on top of him_ and can no doubt _feel_ the effect this is having on him, can do doubt _hear_ his erratic breathing, and, hell, Light wouldn’t be surprised if L could hear just how hard his heart is pounding right now. They’re so close. So. Very. Close. Mere inches apart. Light could so easily take advantage of this. It feels like it’s been forever since they last cuddled or kissed or did anything like that; he wants more...and can’t stop staring at L’s lips.

Without much further thought, he reaches up, grabs a fistful of L’s hair, and pulls him into an inelegant kiss.

Seemingly caught off guard, L lets out a surprised groan into his younger’s mouth; it's a low-pitched, guttural sound that Light finds so attractive and so provocative, oh, he sounds _perfect_-

The teenager’s thoughts are interrupted when L breaks free from the kiss. He looks angry. Light suddenly regrets acting on impulse.

“Did I give you permission to kiss me?”

He sounds angry, too. But Light is long past caring. Whatever consequences come to pass as a result of his actions, whatever punishment L inflicts upon him, he feels he deserves; too long has he gone without, he might as well solicit it. He pulls L into another kiss, who, this time, reciprocates. With a firm hold on his younger’s cheek, he deepens the kiss; Light whimpers in confusion as his tongue is adroitly pinned down. L explores his mouth delicately, with tentative licks, but moves his lips so violently, as if he's trying to subdue and smother his suspect. Luxuriating in this bliss, Light moans, clenching his fists briefly before his fingers coil around tangled locks of thick, messy ebon hair. He wraps his legs around one of L’s and lets himself be debauched, driven dizzy by the ardent inferno within, as corybantic feelings of lust and greed and guilt and disgust and self-hatred and only hell knows what else overwhelm him. Though he knows he shouldn’t, he _wants_ this so very badly. He wants L’s weight on him, crushing him. He wants L’s lips on his, starving his lungs of air. He wants L’s tongue wrapped around his, tasting him; he wants L to ravish him, to steal his innocence, and he wants to be slathered in impurity until he can bear it no longer! He can scarcely bear this simple kiss; he's drowning in newly discovered sensations, succumbing to the force majeure.

It’s _suffocating_, in the best way possible.

Alas, eventually, it comes to an end. With a smirk, L releases both his younger's lips and his younger's cheek. The brunet gasps for air then exhales the breath sharply, as his heart flutters.  
“Please,” he all but whispers, in a desirous frenzy.  
“Please what?” L questions, with more than a hint of amusement in his rich voice.  
“More.” A word is all Light can manage.  
“...Disregard what I said earlier,” L states calmly, almost monotonously.  
“Eh?”  
“I never permitted you to kiss me, did I?”  
“...No, I suppose not,” Light murmurs.  
“For that, I really ought to chastise you,” his elder purrs, leering.  
“Do what you like,” Light sighs, looking downcast.  
“Huh?” his elder voices in unfeigned confusion.  
“Do whatever you like to me,” the brunet says in an undertone as amorousness and agony amalgamate within his eyes.  
“Is that what you want?” L hums.  
“What I want doesn't matter,” Light maffles.  
“Well,” L begins cautiously, “what would you suggest?”  
“Just...” his younger heaves yet another sigh, “inflict upon me whatever you think I deserve.”  
“What do _you_ think you deserve?”  
“Stop asking questions!”  
“Oh, but you must be _specific_, Kitten.”  
He glares. “You can stop that, too.”  
“You like it,” L chuckles. “Now, tell me what you want.”  
“There’s no point,” Light vociferates. “I know you won’t give it to me.”  
“I may. It really depends on what you want. You’ll find, my _kitten_, that I can be quite generous.”  
“Oh, stop with that nickname!”  
“Tell me what you want first.”  
“...Please me,” the brunet utters, lowering his voice in embarrassment.  
“How would you have me please you?” L asks as he moves in closer.  
The detective plants a few feathery kisses on his suspect’s neck, making him gasp.  
“_Lower_,” Light almost spits the word, as if it’s venom on his tongue.

L lets out a mellifluous laugh, intrigued by his younger’s sudden audacity.

“Don’t be cheeky, now,” he warns, his lips brushing against tender skin as he does so.  
“_Please_?”  
“That’s right, Dear, beg for it,” he growls, making Light let out a soft moan.  
“I-if you’d be so kind...as to…” Light pauses, trying to figure out how to transform his crude thoughts into polite words.  
“Don’t hesitate. Tell me what you’re thinking.”  
“C-could you please...well, please me?”  
“You’re not quite clear enough, Dear. How should I please you?”  
“I already said. Just...go lower.”  
“How low?”  
“Quit the innocent act, you already know,” he hisses, gritting his teeth.  
“Any more cheek from you and you’re not getting a thing,” L says coldly, pulling away from Light’s neck to look him in the eye.  
“Does that mean you’ll give me something?” Hope fills the brunet’s voice.  
“Perhaps if you’re polite enough.”  
“Please?”  
“Go on.”  
“Kindly...grant me what I desire.”  
“‘Polite’ doesn’t mean _prim_.”  
“Eh?”  
“Use vulgarity when it’s appropriate, Light.” If L’s voice could roll its eyes, it would be doing so at present.  
“Y-you want me to be vulgar?”  
“I want you to be clear, my kitten.”  
“_Please_, I don’t care how you get me off, I just want you to.”  
“That’s it,” he reassures, smirking again.  
“Y-your mouth and your tongue felt good on mine, I…” Light trails off, too shy to elaborate. But L understands, regardless.  
“What you’re trying to say is you want me to suck you off.”

Light’s eyes widen and, somehow, he blushes harder.

“I-if you wanted to, I-I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea…”  
“See, I might have.”  
“What do you mean you might have?”  
“Had you not misbehaved.”  
“So, you won’t?”  
“I don’t think you deserve it.”  
“Th-then, your hand is just fine too. Just _please_ let me finish. That’s all I want.”  
“As you said, what you want doesn't matter.”  
“No, _please_‽”  
“You won’t get what you want if you keep misbehaving. You must ask for permission before you kiss me.”  
“You can’t do this to me, not again!”  
“I rather think I can.”

Light scoffs, looking up at his unfathomable companion with disdain and disapproval. L stares right back, glassy-eyed. The younger of the two releases L’s hair from his grasp then returns his hands to his side.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks suddenly, sounding hurt and hazy.  
“Doing what?”  
“_This_,” he sibilates.  
“You’ll have to elaborate further, my kitten,” L goads with sultry tones.  
“The teasing, the taunting, the…_canoodling_, why are you subjecting me to this‽”  
“You don’t like it?”  
“That’s not what I meant.” Light sighs in exasperation. “I just need to know why you’re putting me through this.”  
“Does it matter?”  
“I want to know.”  
“Why?”  
“I’m confused! I’m so, so confused, Ryuzaki.”  
“I’m not surprised…” L says ever so quietly, sounding oddly remorseful.  
“Will you tell me why?”  
“Do you not like it?” he raises his voice to its typical level.  
“No, I think I like it. I just…”  
Light trails off, breaking eye contact with a deep sigh. L is definitely feeling pity now; the child looks utterly _miserable_. He's so close to breaking point. So close to the edge.  
“If you won’t tell me why…” Light begins, meeting his elder’s eyes again, “then, please, tell me how long this is going to continue.”  
“Until our hearts coalesce, my darling.”

Light’s heart skips another beat. _His_. His darling.

“I’m not sure I can take this much longer…”  
“You’ll take it. You’ll take it just fine,” L soothes, soaking each word in dulcet honey. “You can be such a good boy.”  
“_Oh_, don’t…”  
“You’re so easy to work up,” he muses with a slight chuckle.  
“I’m serious. This is too much.”  
“Stop being overdramatic. You’re not going to drop dead because you can’t get off.”  
“But I really need it…”  
“You don’t _need_ anything. You _want_ me to please you, but you don’t deserve it right now.”  
“I know, but-”  
“You like to feel in control of yourself, don’t you?” he interposes.  
“Well, yes.”  
“Then control this fleshly urge. Keep it at bay. It will pass.”  
“I don’t think I can if you keep talking to me…”  
“Ah, I’m sorry,” he laughs, sounding mellow and melodious.  
Light giggles too, as his sparkling umber-coloured eyes stare into blank leaden orbs. What’s wrong with him tonight? Mere arousal doesn’t usually feel like this. He's entirely _aware_ of the hot blood coursing through his veins, and he can _hear_ his rapid, erratic pulse in his ears; his entire body is _burning_. It’s a heat that’s begging to be assuaged - if only L would allow it! Perhaps, if he heeds L's behest, if he’s _really_ good, L will…

Agh, he shouldn’t be thinking about this!

But he can’t stop. No longer can he restrain these impure thoughts, not when his engorged cock is pressing against L’s thigh and begging him to squirm, to just _move_ and get some semblance of relief. He's longing to take further advantage of this situation, yet he knows he must follow L’s orders; he must be good if he wants to stay on L’s better side. L wants him to control himself. He fears he can’t; he’s useless at self-control, as his incorporeal confidant constantly reminds him. Must L tempt him so? He’s just staring down at him in silence, waiting for the next word. Those eyes are so deep and dark and mysterious...oh, Light could get lost in them! And his lips…

Look so kissable.

He never said he couldn’t kiss him. He said he had to ask for permission to do so.

“Can I kiss you?” Light says breathily, in a voice is soft with intense, unyielding desire.  
“Ask nicely,” L replies almost instantly.  
“Please,” Light half-moans, earning a smile, “may I kiss you?”  
“Such a good boy for me,” L coos. “Since you asked so nicely, I suppose you may.”  
Light doesn’t need to be told twice. In no time at all, he’s reaching up into L’s matted hair and pulling him nearer, locking their lips. It’s immediate ecstasy: the feeling of wet flesh on wet flesh, and the taste of mint on their tongues. L attacks Light’s mouth skilfully, soon having his tongue pinned down once more. Salacity overpowers the brunet; he moves his hips and moans into the kiss as he rubs his cock against L’s thigh, cursing the fabric barrier. L doesn’t allow this for long, in a matter of seconds he pushes his knee down onto the floor, making Light still. Light isn’t too bothered; the pressure against his erection only gets him hotter. He _thinks_ he’s moaning again, but can't be too sure; everything seems so unreal, so hazy, and so phantasmagoric. All he feels is dizziness, probably since L’s hot breath on his florid skin entrances him so much he forgets to breathe himself, and an overwhelming, intoxicating jouissance, until…

Until there's pain.

L nips at his lower lip with keen canines, gently, holding the pink, tender flesh between his teeth for no longer than a second before he lets it go, teasing its owner. Light is breathing now; he’s breathing _hard_ and _fast_. He feels L smirk into the kiss as he bites down harder, and for longer, making the lip swell. Thrilled by this increasing pain, the brunet wallows in this sweet yet torturous pleasure, but can’t help wanting something more. His body has been telling him for a while now that he needs something more. Thus, he tries to break away from the kiss so he may speak, but L pins his forearms to his side and only bites down harder, making him whimper in both pain and pleasure. Light’s limits are being pushed, and his tolerance is being tested; by now, he’s tasting something metallic, something salty. It’s a taste he recognises, and one that makes him sick to his stomach...but perhaps that’s the least of his worries when his arms are being gripped so tightly they’re going numb. As L’s bites become more frequent, frenzied, erratic, and _violent_, a long, animalistic whine attempts to pass Light’s lips, only to be subdued on its way out. This piteous cry doesn’t stop L; if anything, he only gets rougher. Though he squirms the best he can, Light cannot seem to escape his elder’s hold; L’s full weight is on him. He’s pinned down by L’s lips on his, L’s hands around his forearms, and L’s leg between his. The pain is too much now, but all he can do is lie down and take it. He knows he must endure his punishment, his _deserved_ punishment. It’s his fault for acting on impulse and not asking for permission. God, has he no self-control‽ Does he really give in to his bodily urges that easily‽

_Do you really have to ask yourself that? You’re a joke._

It’s right. He’s a laughing stock; he knows this much. L tries to please him, for his own good, and he fights because he’s _a pathetic little bitch who feigns coyness and acts demure in a sorry attempt to mask the revolting, good-for-nothing harlot you know you are, deep inside. Try though you may to hide your true self from Ryuzaki, you can't escape your mind. The poor man, he doesn’t even know the half of what you fantasise about! You 'wouldn’t be opposed to the idea'? You’re hopeless, well and truly hopeless. You let that slip, and now you’ve messed everything up. He’s hurting you because you’ve no doubt hurt him, you halfwit. You let your selfish desires take hold of you, you ignored your rational side, and you didn’t even consider how Ryuzaki would feel, so now you’re facing the consequences. This agony is what you deserve._

His eyes well up, so he keeps them shut tight. He’s taking this abuse, both from L and his innermost ally, because he _deserves_ it. Wound after wound, insult after insult, he takes them all, until, after one last excruciating, drawn-out nip, L lets him go, drawing away. Light sighs in relief, then opens his watery eyes, licking away the ichor pouring from his swollen, bruised lip. The taste he finds abhorrent, _nauseating_, even; the very thought of blood sullying the ethereal form he’s working so hard for seems _sinful_.

“Are you alright?” L inquires, looking a tad jolted.

Light stares up at him in silence with a blank expression. It’s a gaze that seems a little too distant, and a little too empty. He's motionless but for the automatic rise and fall of his chest. He's not even blinking; he looks well-nigh..._catatonic_.

“Are you alright?” L repeats, louder this time, with evident, genuine worry in both his tone and his lineaments.

With a few volant blinks, Light breaks free of his brief stupor, seeming addled and dazed.

“What?” he asks, uncertain of how long he’d zoned out for.  
“Are you alright, Darling?” L loosens his grip on his arms.  
“Yeah, I’m fine…” the brunet tells a blatant lie.  
“You seem a bit out of it. Was I too rough?”  
“I’m-” crimson ichor enters his mouth as he purses his lips; with a grimace, he licks it away, then continues, “I’m fine. I deserved it.”  
“At least you know that much,” L muses with a low chuckle.  
Light laughs once. It's a frivolous and breathy sound begot not by joy, but by an innermost need to mimic, to relate.  
“Why did you deserve it, Darling?”  
“I didn’t ask if I could kiss you.”  
“Do you regret that now?” L leans in and nibbles on his younger’s earlobe, earning a gasp.  
“Stop that,” Light protests, to no avail. “Please,” he adds.  
This seems to be enough, as L stops.  
“I asked you a question,” L states in a baleful tone.  
“Yes. I do.”  
“What else do you regret?” He tilts his head downwards to plant more kisses upon Light’s neck.  
“Am...” Light breathes hard, “am I meant to regret something else?”  
“_Confess_ to me, Dear,” L urges. “Get it all out. It’ll make you feel better.”  
“I-I don’t think I- ow, stop biting me, please!”  
“You can tell me.”  
“Why do you want to kn-_oh_, please stop-”  
“Quit being coy,” he growls.  
“I...” Light begins, but shuts himself up when he realises there’s no use resisting.  
“Now,” L smirks as he licks at the sensitive flesh, pleased by his younger’s winsome mewls, “what else do you regret?”  
“Um, I, _ah_, I guess...Misa?”

L sinks his teeth in deep. Light hisses at the sudden pain.

“Then break up with her,” the detective says once he releases the flesh between his teeth, sounding angrier than before.  
“I-I can’t, she-”  
“You can.”  
“I can’t do that to her.”  
“You mean to tell me you reciprocate her feelings? You’re hopelessly in love with that silly girl? Seriously?” he mocks, scowling to himself.  
“Not at all,” the brunet explains. “I've told you before that I don’t even like women.”  
“Don’t you want to be rid of her?” L asks, wanting more answers from his suspect.  
“I feel...I feel like she’s important.”  
“Important how?” He threatens to bite again.  
“I can’t remember.”  
“Is there much you can’t remember?”  
“Sometimes, I...think I’m missing memories.”  
“How intriguing,” he muses in a derisive tone.  
“But that’s because I’m…”  
“Because you’re what, Light?” He pricks up his ears.  
“I’m…”

L waits in anticipation, with adrenaline rushing through his system. This could be it. He just knew bringing Misa up would yield positive results!

“Well, I’m not…” Light sighs, trailing off once more.  
“Don’t be frightened. Tell me the truth. You can trust me, Light.”  
“I guess I...might be…”  
“Yes?”  
“I didn’t think it would affect my memory. I mean, I know it _can_, but...I didn’t think it would.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“A…” he still can’t bring himself to say that word, “...well, what Watari reckons I have.”

L stifles a sigh of disappointment. It's still too early. Light must be broken down some more before he confesses all he has done.

“Your maladie?”  
“I’m not ill.”  
“Still in denial?”  
“Why do you want me to break up with her?” Light changes the subject.  
“You’re mine,” L states as if it's already obvious.  
“Am I?”  
“I claimed you a good while ago.” He smirks. “Left my mark.”  
“Y-you don’t have to mark me. I’m all yours, regardless.”  
“I _adore_ watching you squirm, though. I love hearing you moan, hearing your breathing accelerate, and seeing you cover up the evidence since you dare not show anyone else how filthy you really are.” He gives a slight chuckle before continuing. “You’re ashamed of it, aren’t you? More often than not, I have to force that ribaldry out of your pretty mouth. I only recall you coming onto me once before tonight.”  
“Naturally,” his younger asserts shakily.  
“_Embrace_ it, my sweet kitten. There’s no crime in giving in to your desires.”  
“I-I can’t. It’s improper; I-”  
“Don’t be so _mimsy_,” L interjects.  
“See, I give in. You make me. You just tease and tease and tease until I can no longer bear it. Then you always leave me unfulfilled. I don’t understand this at all.”  
“Understand, my dear, that I wish to please you, but-”  
“Then let me have release. _Please_?”  
“Not yet.”  
“_Please_?”

Light whines as he pleads. L bites his lip, restraining himself the best he can.

“I’d like to…” he begins, fighting to maintain his composure...

It’s a fight he soon loses.

“I’d love to _devour_ you,” he growls, cupping Light’s right cheek, “...but not yet.”  
“_Please_, I can’t wait much longer…”  
“Do you really think you’re ready?”  
“...No,” Light replies candidly, after some hesitation.

L sighs. He shouldn’t let this get to him, yet, he does. What he's doing is necessary, he reminds himself, though that doesn’t make it right. When was the last time he felt guilt like this?

“You're but a child,” L says out of the blue. “I shouldn't be doing this.”  
“I’m not a kid, seriously.” Light fleers.  
“You can’t even drink yet.” At this moment, L realises just how _unworldly_ his companion must be.  
“I can consent,” Light giggles with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. It's rare L sees that sparkle these days.  
“Light, I’m sorry.”  
“For what?”  
“Oh, nevermind. Come,” he pulls away, kneeling between Light’s legs, “I’m tired.”  
“That’s it, then?”

The detective swallows a lump in his throat. The poor kid sounds _dejected_. He's not used to these sudden pangs of conscience, not since…

Well, not since B.

God, the name alone makes him shudder, uncovers all those memories...

Memories he thought he'd long ago repressed.

All those times he'd been guilt-tripped into…

He slams his eyes shut, burying his face in his hands. He has to calm down, and has to slow his breathing, for he cannot lose his equilibrium in front of Light; he cannot jeopardise this investigation. Bad memories are better off repressed.

_Alright_, he tells himself after a short while, _I've got it under control. I was just caught off guard, that's all_. Indeed, his breathing has slowed. All he need do is forget. Things are so much better that way. Steadily, he opens his eyes, then uncovers his face. What meets him is the sight of a most bemused Light kneeling before him, with his head cocked.

“Ryuzaki?”  
“Yes?” he responds with a flawless affectation of acedia, returning his arms to his side.  
“Are you okay?”  
“Fine, Dear,” he lies as he rises to his feet. “Come to bed.”  
He offers up his hands. Light blinks, knitting his brow. Why did L seem so panicked all of a sudden? That isn’t like him at all. With haste, he reaches up and lets L help him to his feet. He’s still all hot and bothered…  
“Hey, Ryuzaki?”  
“Yes, Dear?”  
“I need the bathroom.”  
“No chance.”  
“Eh‽”  
“I know exactly what you’ll do in there.”  
“Oh, but please, I’m-”  
“_No_, Kitten. Wait until dawn.”  
“I thought I’d already endured my punishment?”  
“You thought wrong.”  
“...How many days?”

With each word, Light sounds more and more dolorous, more and more discomfited. L fears his little leman may not be able to handle much more than this.

“Just until the morning; you’ve already been so good. Your lip must hurt.”  
“It does.”  
“Did I take it too far?”  
“I deserved it.”  
“That’s a yes, then. I’m sorry, Darling.”  
“Don’t be.”  
“How clement,” L muses, smiling to himself. “Right, it’s bedtime. I’m shattered.”  
“You should sleep more,” Light suggests as they make their way to the bed.  
“I have very little need for it.”  
The brunet simply nods, not daring to question L’s flimsy excuse. He switches off the light and crawls into bed, settling against the cold mattress. He shivers, notwithstanding the heat still surging through his body. He’ll have to sleep this off again. He’s so turned on it _hurts_; though he wants release, he knows he doesn’t deserve it. With a sigh, he closes his eyes.  
“Come here, Pet.”  
Ah. Of course. L needs to know where his hands are. He shuffles closer to his elder, not bothering to open his eyes again, and lets himself be embraced. He smiles.  
“I like this.”  
“Huh?” L utters, not having heard properly.  
“I like this,” Light repeats, louder this time.  
“You’re not used to such adulation, are you?”  
“No. No one else has ever done this with me.”  
“I’m sure many would jump at the chance.”  
“You flatter me,” Light laughs.  
“I do. You’re beautiful.”  
“You think so?  
“I mean it, my darling. You’re gorgeous.”  
“Not perfect, though.”  
“To me, you are. You know that.”  
“To you?”  
“And to many others, I’m sure.”  
Light wishes he could see himself as L does. “You're too kind.”  
“You’re much too abject,” L tuts. “Now, goodnight, Dearest.”  
“Goodnight,” the teenager maffles, melting into his elder's deceitful embrace.


	13. Chapter 13

It’s another one of those nights.

L cannot seem to focus, no matter which case looks at; everything is far-off and indistinct. He stares at unreadable words, taking nothing in. So, he sighs deeply, averting his eyes from his effulgent laptop to peer at the sleeping boy beside him. The Kira case is at a complete standstill. The killings continue, and he's no closer to getting that confession out of Light. He's trying so hard, doing everything he can to pry an admission out, but it's not coming. Light is so stubborn, so adamant that he isn't Kira; but L knows he is; in fact, he…_wants_ him to be.

If it turns out he's been doing all this to an innocent child…

He wouldn't be able to bear the guilt.

Guilt is an odd little emotion. No, a revolting little emotion; it brings back bad memories. He’s felt it more frequently, lately, and, in sooth, that hasn’t been good for his mental stability. Every single time those poignant pangs manifest within his stomach, it reminds him of B, and it took him years to recover from what B did. Truthfully, he fears he may still be in the healing process, what with him nearly breaking down in front of Light the other night. But B is dead now, and cannot harm anyone any longer. L knows he should be overjoyed, but when Watari informed him of his successor’s death, he cried so hard. He still misses him and still chokes up when he thinks of how much pain he must have been in when he burnt, and when he died in that cell. He still regrets all those years he put him through such horrendous agony. L always thought he would be the one to bring upon B’s demise. That's what B told him, anyway, that they would be each other's fate. L always thought he would be happy if an execution warrant was drawn up. At one point, in a fit of rage, he visited B in prison and told him he’d pull some strings and make sure he'd be executed for his crimes, only for B to talk him out of it, like he always would. B had a way with words; he was constantly sweet-talking, constantly deceiving. L figured it would be better to keep him alive, yet securely locked up. That way, nothing could weigh upon his conscience.

Then Kira came along.

When he killed B, that was the last straw. At that moment, L decided to dedicate his life to catching that degenerate. He vowed to devote almost all his time to studying each minuscule clue; he knew he had to catch Kira, even if it killed him. The two Kiras cannot be forgiven for their crimes; murder is murder, and murder is inexcusable.

Obviously, they are Yagami Light and Amane Misa. Or at least, they were. Kira’s power may well have vacated them now; it may have found other hosts. They may not even remember being Kira; Light did say he feels like he’s missing memories. If L can find a way to trigger Light, perhaps he can bring those repressed memories back to the surface and attain a confession. Once Light confesses, Misa will too, undoubtedly…

No. That’s a silly theory.

Oh, he has too many emotions lately, all conflicting. He mustn't continue letting them get in the way of his work, and he must repress these awful memories of his once again. He had better stop brooding and do something productive, also. Should he wake Light to question him? What time is it? Ah, only one o’clock, he realises with a glance at his laptop. God, its luridity stings his bleary eyes, so he quickly looks away. Light always seems so at peace in sleep. It provides some respite for him belike. Admittedly, L finds it hard to see a mass murderer in this wan, wide-eyed kid, but the evidence points to him. It simply cannot be a coincidence; he fits the profile so perfectly. Light is intelligent enough to play the innocuous, starry-eyed schoolboy, but that jejune act makes him seem all the more suspicious. L can tell he's hiding something behind that front. There's something he won't let slip, a secret he guards like a mother would her child. Perhaps L should question Sachiko. She may provide some useful insight. That’s a thought. He should discuss that with Watari. Alas, the only person he can discuss anything with at present is Light, and he is out cold. L knows he isn’t going to get any work done tonight; he cannot bear staring at a screen any longer. He won't sleep either, not in his current state, for sleep only begets insufferable nightmares. Oh, this is taking too long; a month has passed since he chained himself to Light, and there are no new leads, and he only has one theory. Silly though it may be, anything is worth a try at this point.

There's no use dilly-dallying, is there?

Promptly, he shuts his laptop, letting darkness engulf him. A shiver dances down his spine, caressing each bone like icy fingertips. For a moment, he swears he hears a hushed, harsh, cruel cackle creeping out from the corner of the room…

He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding as his eyes frantically flit, finally adjusting to the new lighting. There's no one there. Of course, there isn’t. The sleep deprivation must be taking a toll on him. When did he last sleep properly? Four days ago? Two days ago, the night those memories were again uncovered, he did manage to get some rest; he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and that ended in a nightmare. He refuses to sleep whilst he remembers. When not sleeping, he should be working; so, he sets his laptop down upon his bedside cabinet, then takes one last glance at his companion before waking him.

He's such a bonny little thing, though his beauty is evanescing. With each passing day, he seems to grow frailer; he's lost that mischievous sparkle in his eyes that were once so bright, so full of life, but have since grown vacant and weary. It isn't just his physical beauty that's taken a hit; he is void of the astuteness and wit he once possessed. The level at which he dissociates these days makes it difficult for him to continue working as he does. Truly, he is a shell of all he once was, naught but a husk. That's down to L, of course; most of it is his devious doing, and he couldn't be smugger. It won't be long now, he determines; soon will he attain that which he so desperately covets.

He reaches out into the blackness, giving Light’s right shoulder a gentle shake. Seconds pass, yet his suspect stays oh-so still; he detects not so much as a twitch. Thus, he tries again, shaking him harder this time, only to be met with a childish whine the second his hand touches that shoulder. Understanding, he returns his hand to his knee, then speaks.  
“Dear?” he calls out, donning his soft, sympathetic tone of voice. “Open your eyes for me.”  
Light heaves a deep sigh. Arduously, he forces open his heavy eyelids, obeying his elder’s request.  
“You’re tired.”  
Light nods faintly. L suppresses a smirk. He's weak, pliable, and easy to get answers out of. A confession may just slip.  
“Do you think you can spare a while to talk to me?”  
The boy sighs yet again, dismayed by this proposition, but he knows there would be no point in saying no. Best to keep L happy, Light doesn’t wish to see him angry again.  
“What do you want?” Light croaks out in a hoarse, hushed voice.  
“Only to talk, my dear,” L croons cloyingly.  
“About?” his younger mumbles.  
“I confess, I find myself…_stressed_.”  
“Oh. Me too.”  
“May I be frank with you?”  
“‘Course.”  
“This investigation is going nowhere right now.”

L studies Light’s expression for the slightest hint of felicity, the slightest curl of the lips, or the slightest widening of the eyes...and he finds no trace of anything of the sort. His expression is as blank as ever. If anything, he looks sad. No, he looks _exhausted_. He looks drained.

“We’re trying our best,” Light bleats, sounding every bit as exhausted as he looks.  
“Indeed, we are. But, sometimes, my dear, one's best isn’t enough.”  
“What else can we do?”  
“Nothing, I fear,” L says glumly.  
“...We will catch Kira,” Light says with certainty.  
“Oh?”  
“I know we will.”  
“I’m sure we will, given enough time. But how many lives will be lost before then?”  
“We’ve got to keep working hard. We’ll find them.”  
“You seem very sure of this.”  
“You’re L!” he exclaims with a brief grin. “You’re the world’s greatest detective. If no one else can, you can solve this.”  
“I fear I’m burnt out, Light.”  
“...What can I do to help?”  
“I’ll get over it, don’t you worry. You’re right,” the elder of the two nods, “we will catch Kira.”

Light smiles once more. 30%.

“What do you think of him?” L inquires.  
Light stops smiling. “Kira?”  
“Of course.”  
“Well, I…” He stops for a little while to think. He has to say this without raising suspicions. “I understand the way he thinks.”  
“Do you, now?”  
“It’s wrong, of course, how he’s killing the criminals. It’s murder.”  
“Killing begets more killing.”  
“Exactly. But I understand him, I think. He wants to make the world better, wants to purify it. He wants it to be perfect.”  
“But a perfect world cannot exist.”  
“No, it can’t,” the brunet huffs. “Criminals can never be erased entirely. Bad people will forever be born into this world.”  
“He's delusional to think otherwise.”  
“He’s mad.”  
“Evidently.”  
“What do you think of him?”  
“Me? Well, I think he’s deluded; a milksop who fancies himself a divinity. His yearning for power has, clearly, consumed him. Perhaps he feels a lack of control in other areas of his life. He strives for justice and perfection, but...does true justice exist? Does true perfection exist?”  
“I think so.”  
“Really?”  
“Well, you tell me I’m perfect.”  
“Do I understand the extent of that word, though? Can my mortal brain even begin to grasp the concept of unmitigated perfection?”  
“I suppose we’ll never know.”  
“Perhaps not.”

L averts his eyes, staring up at the white ceiling. Does Light realise they’re describing him?

“Ryuzaki?”  
“Yes, Dear?” They make eye contact once more.  
“When…” Light hesitates. Anxiety overtakes him at the mere thought.  
“Hm?”  
“When we catch Kira...will we part ways?”  
“Who can say what the future holds for us, my pet?”  
“I…”  
“Speak up. I can barely hear you.”  
“I don’t want you to leave me.”  
“I may have to.”  
“I don’t want to be without you, Ryuzaki.”  
“Assuming you’re not Kira, and we do part ways once they’re in prison, you’ll cope. Given enough time, you’ll forget I even exist.”  
“I promise you I’m not a murderer.”

_You don’t sound very sincere_, L notes.

“Once you’re cleared of suspicion, I’ll let you go,” the detective explains. “The same goes for Amane-san, too. You’ll be free to do as you please. Wouldn’t you like that?”  
“I would prefer...being with you.”  
“You like the chain?” he questions with genuine puzzlement.  
“No. I just like being near you.”

_He’s trying to get closer to me, trying to build up trust. He’s hoping I’ll let my details slip if I trust him. 32%_.

“Why’s that, then?”  
“Don’t know. I like how you make me feel sometimes.”  
“Only sometimes?”  
“Other times, I hate the things you make me feel.”  
“You’re a mercurial little thing, eh?”  
“Says you.”  
“You have a point,” L chuckles.  
“You won’t leave me, will you?”  
“Dear, I may have to. I have a very important job to do.”  
“I don’t want you to be with anyone else!”

Light raises his voice, and for the first time in hours, he moves, propping himself up on his elbows for a second or two before he flops back down onto his side, glouting when his head hits the pillow. As his palpitating heart thumps loud in his chest, he has to remind himself not to make any sudden movements like that again. They make him feel lightheaded.

“Rather apprehensive of your rivals, aren’t you?”  
“...Shouldn’t I be?”  
“I am not yours to be proprietorial of.”  
“No, of course not.”  
“Don’t sound so dismal. Know your place.”  
“Yes. Please, forgive my insolence.”  
“Why do you want to be around me?”  
“I told you. You make me feel nice things sometimes.”  
“And other times?”  
“You upset me. But I know I deserve it since I don’t behave.”  
“...What am I to you, Light?”  
“...My friend?”  
“Oh, indeed?”  
“But friends don’t...do what we do together.”  
“No. But our circumstances are quite different from those of regular friends, wouldn’t you say?”  
“And am I just a friend to you?”  
“You’re more than a friend. You’re _mine_.”

Light gasps faintly. “More than a friend”? Oh, he’s got butterflies again!

“That means you belong to me and me only. If anyone else so much as lays a finger on you, I won’t stand for it. Do you understand?”  
“Yes. I’m yours.”  
“Good. I knew you would. You’re such a bright boy.”  
“I don’t need to be told I’m bright. Sick of that. It’s not that difficult to understand.”  
“You’d be surprised,” L chuckles once again.  
“If I’m yours then you can’t leave me, can you?”  
“I’m not going to leave you any time soon, stop fretting.”  
“How long...will we remain like this?”  
“Until I’m satisfied that you’re not Kira.”  
“Until we catch Kira, then?”  
“Right.”  
“How can you think I’m him?”  
“Seriously, don’t get sad. You fit the profile.”  
“How‽”  
“You lived in the Kantou region at the time of the Lind L. Tailor incident. You would have had access to police materials through your father. Your schedule, as a student, lined up perfectly with Kira’s. Not to menti-”  
“But you stalked and surveilled me, and you know I couldn’t have been killing anyone! You manacled my hands and feet and locked me up in a cell, and the killings continued. I’m now under your watchful eye every second of every day, and the killings continue. There's CCTV footage of every room in this building! Why am I not yet cleared‽”  
“Don’t interrupt me while I’m speaking, Light,” he warns, glaring.  
“Forgive me,” Light meekly expresses his regret, briefly breaking eye contact.  
“You’re desperate for purity and perfection, just like Kira. You feel you lack control, and quite frankly, you’re so deep in denial you’re not far off being deluded.”  
“I have morals,” he says, paying no heed to his elder's insults. “I couldn’t bring myself to kill someone. It’s not right.”  
“Surely it would make you feel powerful, though? You’d have complete control of that person’s existence as you seized their final breath.”  
“I’m sure it would, but I don’t need that kind of control. It’s not my place to decide who lives and who dies.”  
“Don’t you think criminals deserve to die?”  
“How can you say that?”  
“Answer the question.”  
“It’s as you say, killing begets more killing. Murder is never the answer.”  
“That’s not what I asked, is it?”  
“...Well, maybe. Depends what they’ve done.”

35%.

“For what would you consider death an apt punishment?”  
“Abuse of women and children, for example.”  
“But killing begets more killing, no? What would an execution achieve?”  
“Well, for one, they wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone anymore.”  
“What about those wrongly convicted?”  
“Obviously, if they’ve done nothing wrong, then they don’t deserve punishment.”  
“But how could you tell the difference between someone rightfully convicted and someone wrongly convicted?”  
“Good point. I guess you can’t, really. Not without new evidence. Or re-examination of old evidence.”  
“Even then, evidence can be tampered with.”  
“Is that not a crime in itself?”  
“Would you say that evidence tamperers deserve execution?”  
“Of course not!”  
“But other criminals do? What’s the difference?”  
“The scope of the crime.”  
“What if the criminal’s mind is impaired at the time they committed the crime? Say by alcohol, drugs, or even mental illness.”  
“That’s no excuse.”  
“Execution should be reserved for the worst of the worst. No matter the excuse, murder is murder.”

L has to stop himself grimacing at his words. Lowering himself to the level of a mere judge is sickening! But devil's advocate, and all that.

“You’d be glad to see them dead?”  
“Wouldn’t you?”  
“I guess.”  
“Why?”  
“The dead can’t hurt anyone.”  
“Is that what you hope to put an end to?”  
“Huh?”  
“Pain.”  
“Pain is necessary.”  
“You reckon?”  
“Without pain, how would we recognise that we're hurt?”  
“So, if not the abolishment of pain and suffering, what is it that you hope to achieve?”  
“With what?”  
“The killings.”  
“...I’m not Kira. But, I can understand how he feels. I think he’s just sad and frustrated by this world’s unjust laws.”  
“So, you sympathise with him?”  
“I empathise with him.”  
“Same thing.”  
“Not really.”  
“Do you think he has empathy?”  
“If he ever did, he’s probably lost it by now. Nobody murders that many people and still has a sense of empathy.”  
“...You could be brilliant, you know.”  
“‘Could be’?”  
“You’re smart.”  
“You’ve told me before.”  
“I mean it, Light. You’re magnificent.”  
“Thanks.”  
“You’re tired of hearing that, aren’t you?” L questions with slight mirth.  
“Yeah.”  
“It’s the only compliment you receive?”  
“Yeah.”  
“You are so much more than your intelligence, my darling. Take my word for it.”  
“Thank you.”  
“You are beautiful, in so many ways.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Speak to me properly.”  
“I am.”  
“You’re giving short answers. Do you not believe me?”  
“I’m just tired.”  
“Oh, right. I’m sorry; I can tell how exhausted you are. Your eyelids are drooping.”  
“I’ll stay awake for you.”  
“No, no, it’s fine. You can go to sleep. I won’t mind.”  
“You’re sure?”  
“Positive.”  
“I’ll stay awake if you want to talk.”  
“Really, Darling, it’s fine. You can’t keep your eyes open. I’ll bid you goodnight now.”  
“...Night.”

With that, the brunet's eyelids flutter shut. Pitiful little thing. He's exhausted enough to incriminate himself without a second thought. Yet, still, he denies being Kira! L sighs yet again, burying his face in his hands. How much further is he going to have to push? How much is he going to have to do to this kid? How much longer is he going to have to endure this? It’s not like he enjoys spending his every moment with this clingy, sullen teenager. Perhaps he really doesn’t remember. How could he not‽ In all fairness, those events may well have been traumatic. If the memories are repressed, they can be recovered, L knows this well enough. He needs to figure out how to trigger that. It could be the slightest sight, smell, or touch. He just has to keep trying, for that’s all he feels he can do. More than anything, he needs a confession, preferably from Light. He knows Misa, sycophant that she is, won’t confess if Light, too, holds his tongue. For now, L will continue to ingratiate his suspect, will continue to admonish him when he oversteps the mark, and will continue his didactic, honest act, all the while working with the theory that Light’s memories of being Kira have been repressed, albeit flimsy.

No matter how long it takes, he _will_ get a confession.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait. Thank you all for being so patient!

Light awakes as he normally does, with L shaking his shoulder.

But today is different.

He hears L’s voice, but he can’t understand. It sounds distorted and distant. But it can’t be...L is within arms reach. Isn’t he?

With considerable effort, Light opens his eyelids. The ceiling above seems...grey, darker than usual. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices L beside him - so why does he sound so obfuscated? Why does Light feel so off-kilter? His heart beats diligently under his ribcage, though the sensation doesn’t seem real. None of this seems real. As he lies on his back, he listens to himself breathing; the sound of each exhalation seems to echo, to ricochet off the walls before evanescing out of existence - if it ever existed in the first place. He’s not sure how much of this is real - if any of it. L is calling for him again, so he looks to his left.

Blurry.

That’s the only word to describe it.

Everything around him is blurred. Every_one_ around him is blurred; granted, that’s only one person. He realises L must want him to get up now. Averting his eyes from the detective at his side, he attempts to sit up, but doesn’t notice when he falls back down onto the bed. He can barely feel the mattress below him, or the duvet enveloping his attenuated frame. Though he grapples at the sheet, he feels as though he’s touching _nothingness_. The next things he’s aware of are hands. Pale hands and lithe fingers sit him up, supporting the heavy head his neck refuses to. He’s looking into L’s eyes, and they aren’t their usual deep grey. They’re pitch-black, so much so that his pupils are hardly discernible. L is ashen, shadowy, and abstruse. His lips keep moving, though Light isn’t taking any of it in; he doesn’t understand a single syllable.

This is not real. Things are _not_ meant to be this way. The world around him has metamorphosed into a drab dreamscape of nullity.

Now, he’s aware of L’s hand caressing his cheek, evoking a curious sense of jamais vu. L’s hand is cold. Or is Light’s cheek cold? Are they both cold? Is the room cold? Light doesn’t know. L’s words seem a tad more familiar now, and he thinks he can discern one in particular - “Light”. If nothing else, he recognises his name.  
“...What?” is the first word that’s escaped his lips since last night.  
L responds promptly, but Light can only make out one word - “_okay_”.  
“O...kay?” he repeats. The word doesn’t feel like it’s coming out of his mouth, though it must be, because L responds quickly, and Light understands this time.  
“Are you okay?”  
“Yeah, I’m...fine,” the brunet drawls.  
“We need to get up now,” his elder instructs.  
“Right.”  
“You’re sure you’re feeling alright?”  
“Fine.”  
L nods, then returns to his side of the bed to allow Light to move, with an expression that betrays his unfeigned concern. Light’s head lolls as soon as L loosens his grip on his hair, but he forces it forward and drapes his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet come into contact with the carpet, but he doesn’t feel it. He simply stares down at his distorted body, disconnected from his surroundings.

Everything is foggy and colourless.

Soon, or perhaps after a while, L is in front of him and holding out his hands. They’re alabaster. Lifeless. Cold. And yet, he reaches out and clutches them, allowing L to pull him to his feet. He’s dizzy. So dizzy, in fact, that in the instant it took for him to blink, he somehow stumbled into L and ended up with his face in his shoulder. The fabric against his cheek is oddly comforting; he wants to cling onto it, he wants it to sheath him in its softness and protect him...but, unfortunately, this pleasant sensation is fleeting. Before he knows it, he’s at L’s feet. He can’t tell whether he was pushed or whether he fell. He probably fell - his legs do feel weak and twitchy - because L crouches before him. He can’t imagine L would bring himself to his level if he pushed him with the intent to create a power imbalance. Promptly, L’s fingertips push against his chin, lifting his head. Jamais vu, déjà fait.  
“Do you want me to take you to Watari?”  
Watari? Why would he need to see Watari?  
“Why?”  
“You’re not well.”  
“Why…” he stops to swallow, “...would you take me to Watari?”  
“He’s a doctor,” L states as if it’s obvious.  
“What?”  
“What do you mean ‘what’?”  
“Since...when?”

L’s features twist into a flummoxed expression.

“You’re not well,” the detective repeats, seemingly to convince himself.  
“I’m fine.”  
“No, really, do you not remember?”  
“Remember what?”  
“You know he’s a doctor. You saw him just over a week ago.”  
“What?”  
“Your father and I were with you. You were distraught; you thought Kira was targeting you.”  
“No...that didn’t…”  
Light unknowingly trails off. Did that happen? Surely, he can’t be forgetting things like that, not at his age? Now he thinks about it, there do seem to be..._gaps_ in his recall. Why is he chained to L? Oh, of course! He’s a suspect, for some reason. He remembers the conversation they had about Kira the other night, their debate. L is going to exonerate him soon, and he’s going to be set free. Right?  
“I need to make a phone call, give me a minute.”  
Light understands L’s words, however hazy, and thinks he responds verbally. Keyword _thinks_. He can’t be sure. He’s spacing out; surroundings are growing blurrier, and L is fading out of sight, slinking away into the fog. Light is staring. He's staring at the wardrobe in front of him. It’s his. It’s where he keeps his clothes. The Task Force have been telling him he needs new clothes. The ones he wears at present look too big for him, they say. He doesn’t care. He’s probably dreaming; that’s why nothing makes sense. This is all a nightmare. He hasn’t had nightmares in a long time. He knows he used to have them before he was chained to L. He doesn’t remember what they were about; it’s been too long. Out of the corner of his eye, he makes out L approaching him once again. That was a short phone call.  
“Come, stand up.”  
L’s words echo. But Light does as he’s told, for some reason, letting the detective help him to his feet. He doesn’t make eye contact with him, for he doesn’t want to look into those black, empty pools. In sooth, he fears they may consume him if he gazes too far into them.  
“I’m sorry that took so long,” L says softly. “I know you don’t feel well, but Watari says this will pass, okay? Just give it time. We need to see him after work, regardless of how you feel. He wants to ask you some questions. Are you fine with that?”  
“...I think so.”  
“Don’t worry, Dear. You’ll be alright.”

Somehow, Light manages to ground himself enough to throw on some deodorant, cologne, and a clean outfit, and to drag a comb through his hair and brush his teeth without dropping anything. His makeup is a challenge, though. The foundation he just about manages, covering up the pallid skin and eyebags he’s just realised he has. Though, the eyeliner is a different story altogether. His shaky hands refuse to apply it in a straight line; this is the third time he’s had to wipe it off and start again.  
“Why...do I do this?” he exclaims in frustration, though his voice is still hardly louder than a whisper.  
“You’ve done this for longer than I’ve known you.” L’s voice creeps out from behind Light. He’d forgotten he was there.  
“I know. I should be good at it by now.”  
“You usually are. Can I help?”  
“You...you know how to do this?”  
“Not really, but I have a steady hand.”  
“Alright…” the teenager agrees as he makes himself turn around.  
L takes the tube of maquillage from Light’s hand without preamble. Light doesn’t seem to notice nor care. The detective’s blurry figure moves in closer, and then the brunet feels fingertips against his chin again.

_Why does he keep grabbing my face_?

L must be trying his hand at makeup now; Light feels wetness against his left eyelid. This is weird. L is the first man who’s done his makeup for him. He remembers he’s let Sayu and Misa do it before, at their insistence. After a short while, L says something indiscernible, then makes his younger look in the mirror. It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough, and certainly better than what Light can do at present.

He’s so tired. He's always tired these days, no matter how much sleep he's had. In this fatigued state, he makes a vague gesture towards his other eye, then drops his arm limply. L understands, and trails the eyeliner across the second eyelid.  
“Done now, Dear. Is it okay?”  
Light nods slowly. Very slowly. Equally as slowly, he turns to face the mirror again. His reflection is ill-defined. He looks out of focus. The next thing he knows, his hands are empty, and L is pretty much forcing him out of the bathroom with a hand on his back. As he compels his feet forward, the sound of L closing the bathroom door behind them resounds in his ears. Everything around him fluctuates in its distinctness; his senses seem impeded. Though he grasps the copper door handle, he cannot _feel_ it. He seems to be on another plane of existence, feeling disconnected from everyone and everything - even L, whose paper-white hand clasps his from behind and removes it from the handle. Light watches, with wantonly focusing and unfocusing vision, as L turns the key and opens the door. He steps out into the dimly-lit corridor, with L following closely behind. Time to face work, if he can.

The shackled pair traipse into the main hall, and are greeted amicably by their coworkers. Light responds with a quiet “good morning”, though cannot hear himself for his unabating tinnitus. He can vaguely make out conversing voices as he flops down into his chair and reaches out to switch his computer on. Oh, he doesn’t feel right; he’s so tired, even though he’s had adequate rest, and his throat and his mouth are dry as a bone. Ringing and whispering noises are rushing through his head, so he squeezes his eyes shut and hopes he can wait this out, resting his already lolling head against his balled left fist. As the ringing dissipates, he focuses on deepening his breathing. It’s as though he’s phasing in and out of reality. He can hear a clear voice now, coming from behind him. It’s his father’s.  
“Light? Are you feeling okay?”  
He opens his eyes. “I...I’m fine,” he replies.  
“You don’t look it,” Aizawa weighs in.  
“Really,” Light swallows, “I’m okay. Just tired.”  
“Have you eaten yet?” Souichirou questions.  
“Yes.”  
“Light-kun should not lie to his father,” L remarks.  
“I-”  
“I’ll go get you something,” Souichirou announces hastily.  
Light draws in a breath to protest but lets it escape him as nothing more than a dismayed sigh. He mustn’t disobey his father, he must stay in his good books since he’s already mad at him for...actually, Light doesn’t remember why his father’s mad at him, nor why he seemed so concerned about whether he’d eaten or not. Does it have to do with that incident the other week that L told him about? The one he’s supposedly forgotten?  
“Didn't you sleep well, Light-kun?” Matsuda pipes up, with uncharacteristic worry in his usually jaunty tone.  
“N-no,” Light stammers. “I'm tired.”  
“I think you need more rest!”  
“Matsuda’s right, for once,” Aizawa chimes in once more. “Ryuzaki, you should allow him another hour or so. He doesn’t look too good.”  
“Light-kun had seven hours of rest last night. That is a perfectly reasonable amount,” L responds, not bothering to look away from his monitor or to stop typing. He's not working, for he hasn't the motivation, but he'll pretend he's being productive.  
“Perhaps you two shouldn't stay up so late,” Aizawa suggests.  
“A few hours of extra rest at the expense of this investigation - is it worth it?”  
“The kid’s exhausted, Ryuzaki, look at him!”  
“I pay heed to your concerns, Aizawa-san, but this is nothing Light-kun can’t sleep off. And if he really is ill, I am sure Watari can treat him.”  
“If he can sleep it off, shouldn’t he do that sooner rather than later?” Matsuda questions.  
“With our predicament, if Light-kun rests, I too shall have to do so.”  
“I don’t think he’s well, Ryuzaki-san! Just the other week you and the chief had to take him to Watari because of chest pain, remember?”  
“Right.” Aizawa nods. “Now that Matsuda mentions it, Light-kun has been acting differently and looking more sickly recently.”  
“It is nothing Watari cannot treat. Now, shall we get back to the task at hand? How many did Kira kill last night?”  
“At least fifty,” Mogi declares.  
“Fifty?” Aizawa asks for confirmation.  
“That’s the number I have so far.”  
A noise between a sigh and a whimper escapes Light’s chapped lips as the whispering gets louder, drowning out the outside world. He lets his russet eyes close once again.

_Don’t listen to those liars. They’re only trying to flatter you. You wish you were as delicate as they make you out to be._

The hushed tones of his familiar’s chiding mix in with L’s lacklustre yet fluent monologues, Matsuda’s vapid inquires, Aizawa’s phlegmatic yet perspicacious statements, and Mogi’s occasional utterances, overwhelming Light’s senses. With each sentence exchanged, his companions seem to grow more distant, until they fade into the distance.

Blankness fills his mind.

When he comes to, the sounds those around him are making are repetitive. They’re all saying the same thing, but Light still can’t understand. Perhaps they’re calling his name?

Suddenly, a hand touches his shoulder.

He glances to his left lazily, with half-lidded eyes.  
“I think Light-kun should have a lie-down.”  
“No, I-”  
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”  
L’s abrupt temerity takes Light aback. Something about that tone of voice makes him feel threatened; it _scares_ him. When has L used that voice before? He racks his brain, but cannot seem to uncover the memory. L beckons for him to stand, so without further ado, he obeys.

A wave of dizziness hits him like a brick to the skull.

As Light stumbles forward, L reaches out and wraps his hand around the teenager’s upper arm to keep him from falling. At first, he doesn't even realise what he's done. That decision was entirely unconscious. This shocks him, naturally, though his mask doesn’t slip and his semblance remains unchanged. He realises now that their colleagues are staring, so he lets go of that arm and takes a step backwards. Light doesn’t react nor move, so L decides he shall have to persuade him to do so. He slinks behind the teenager and slowly guides him forward with a hand on the small of his back, feeling like he's been doing this a lot recently. When Light gets the hang of it and moves of his own accord, L removes his hand from his back, though keeps it extended so he may catch Light if he falls again. Luckily, the brunet keeps his footing and makes it to a nearby virescent settee, upon which he takes a seat.  
“Lie down, now,” L murmurs, making sure he’s audible only to Light.  
The boy does as he’s told and lies on his back, resting his head against the settee’s arm. He sighs deeply, staring at the ceiling. L leans against the settee with his left arm sprawled across its back. When he gazes down at his younger, he cannot help but feel pity. He’s pushed him way too far, but what else was he to do‽ This is all he knows. This is what _works_. Light can’t be far off confessing. Once he comes to his senses and regains his memories, which he will, Watari has assured L of that much, he will be ready to let it slip. That trigger just needs to be found.

L is playing the waiting game, yet again.

He lets out a surreptitious sigh. Damn this conscience, and damn these feelings. _This boy is a murderer_, he reminds himself. He will not feel pity for murderers. He _cannot_ feel any pity for murderers, not again. The memories of the last time he let himself sympathise with a murderer still haunt him, keep him up at night, and catch him off guard. Luckily, he’s gotten good at repressing all he would like to. Perhaps too good. He clears his throat, and his mind of all thought of his sweetheart, then glances behind. Matsuda is staring with a worried expression plastered across his face, as is Aizawa.  
“Get back to...what you were doing, Matsuda-san,” L instructs, hesitant to call keeping an eye on Misa 'work'.  
“Y-yes, Ryuzaki! I’m sorry!” Matsuda replies with a bow of the head before he swivels in his chair and faces his monitor once more.  
“You too, Aizawa-san.”  
Aizawa nods, then follows L’s advice. They’ve never seen Light like this; they must be worried. L has seen Light dissociate before, but never this heavily. He turns his head, gazing upon his suspect once more. Again, he lets himself sigh, as a feeling of genuine contrition gnaws away at him. He shall atone for this the best he can, he decides, putting his free hand to use and brushing his fingers through Light’s locks.

As Souichirou descends the staircase with a mug of black coffee and a bowl of TKG in hand, a bewildering sight catches his eye: his son lying on the settee like an _invalid_. Is he seriously taking a nap? He should be hard at work by now!

But his apparent lack of capability isn’t the most bewildering thing. L has a hand in Light’s hair.

Souichirou scowls at the sight. His son is being petted like a common animal! By L! Souichirou knows they’ve grown closer since they were chained together, but...the sight of them partaking in such a cordial, borderline intimate act _alarms_ him. There’s something inside him that’s telling him that he should be worried, that there’s something more to this. Heedful of this instinct, he makes his way over to the pair, cautiously and curiously. They don’t seem to notice his presence. Or, at least L doesn’t; Light seems oblivious to the world. Souichirou isn’t sure if his son is sleeping, or merely resting his eyes.  
“Light?”  
With that, L jerks his hand backwards, seeming startled. Calmly, Light meets his father’s gaze. His heart sinks at the sight of sustenance.  
“Sit up,” Souichirou commands.  
Without much hesitation, his son follows the order given. The movement begets a spell of lightheadedness, so he grabs onto the settee’s arm as black spots obscure his vision, sinking his fingers into the plush textile. He’s a bit more grounded now; he can actually feel what he’s grasping. He’s also regained some memories; he remembers...sitting in L’s lap or at L’s side, and having his hair stroked. But that’s all. Given a few seconds, his vision clears, and he meets his father’s eye line.  
“Have some breakfast. It’ll give you energy.”  
Souichirou hands the mug and the bowl to his son, who reluctantly takes them, placing the bowl in his lap and keeping the mug in his hands.

Scalding heat seeps out into his fingers. It feels _real_.

He stares down at his blurry reflection in the dark liquid. Things still seem a bit distant and hazy, but he’s improving; the world around him seems a little more vibrant now.

He’s hungry. He knows he can’t eat the rice, but...a coffee should be fine, shouldn’t it? Slowly, he brings it closer to his face and sniffs. It smells like black coffee. But what if it’s not? His father could’ve slipped something calorific in, or prepared it incorrectly…

_Don’t drink it._

He lowers the mug, keeping it at arms length. He can’t drink this. He hasn’t seen it prepared. He can’t risk it.

“Eat something, Light.”

Again, he and his father make eye contact. He feels..._intimidated_, being stared down like this, so he quickly looks away.

“I’m not hungry,” he rejoins.  
“When did you last eat?” his father queries, not bothering to beat around the bush.  
“Yesterday afternoon,” L interposes.  
“You must be hungry,” the chief asseverates. “Eat.”  
“It’s too hot,” Light protests.  
“You haven’t even picked up your chopsticks; how do you know it’s hot?” Souichirou exclaims. “You’ve barely even looked at it!”

Light swallows. His breathing falters. He knows he’s disappointing his father. Within seconds, his heart rate quickens, and nausea takes ahold of him.

“It’s emitting heat, I can feel it,” he lies, gritting his teeth.  
“At least have a drink,” Souichirou sighs.  
“I can’t. My lip. Salt in the...” he trails off, trying to remember how he obtained those cuts. He’d seen them in the mirror this morning and thought them a little odd since he doesn’t bite his lips.  
“You need to stop making excuses, Light.”  
“They’re not excuses.”  
“My son…” Souichirou suspires, lowering his voice, “just have a sip. Just take a bite. That’s all I want to see.”  
“When it’s cooler.”  
The chief heaves yet another sigh. Light is becoming such a stubborn and insolent child. What could be having this effect on him? He used to be so well-behaved, so sagacious; he was such a joy to have around! Something is wrong with this boy, though it pains Souichirou to admit that to himself. All he wants is a normal kid, not this zoned-out, stressed-out, worn-out nervous wreck. Light needs to get a grip, relearn some manners, and stop sulking.  
“Light?” Souichirou says, assuming a stern tone.  
“Yeah?” Light responds half-heartedly.  
“Look at me.”

All of a sudden, more memories flood back to Light.

A memory of him and L in a bathroom, standing before the sink. L saying those same three words - “look at me”. Him refusing out of fear. L clutching his chin and forcing the eye contact. Him recoiling as L did so, a natural reaction in his perturbed state. L caught him purging that night.

A memory of he and L in their quarters, sitting alone on their settee. Well, he sat in L’s lap. L repeating those words - “_look at me_” - in a voice so acerbic. Him acquiescing out of fear. He doesn’t know when that incident occurred, recalling nothing further.

He gulps. How and why has he forgotten such important information?

“Light, I’m serious now. Look me in the eye.”

His father’s tone is solemn. Light knows he shouldn’t disobey; he can’t let him down even more than he already has. He takes a deep breath and holds it, meeting his father’s eyes.

“You need to eat.”  
“I will. Just not now.”  
“One bite.”  
“Tou-san, I...I can't.”  
“Yes, you can.”  
“I…”  
The troubled teenager only manages one word before the steadily increasing ringing in his ears overpowers the external. He feels so weak and nauseous, and his nerves are twitching uncontrollably. What the hell is wrong with him today‽ Missing memories, this weird sense of detachment, and these horrible physical sensations, all overwhelming him! Mere words cannot describe how dreadful he feels. He wishes he could remember, wishes he could concentrate, wishes he could understand, and wishes he could function! But his wishes never come true; he hardly ever gets what he wants these days, not with L around. Memories regarding L seem to be what he’s lost the most of. He doesn’t know why, but L’s presence seems to calm him. It seems to allay his persistent melancholy. He feels safe around L, and he feels protected. Yet, at the same time, L frightens him. One thing he has retained despite this memory loss is the knowledge that L is not to be challenged, for bad things will happen if L is opposed. Perhaps this deep-rooted fear is why Light flinches as soon as L touches his shoulder.  
“Light-kun?”  
His umber-coloured eyes meet L’s. “...What?”  
“Yagami-san was just asking Light-kun a question.”  
“A-ah, okay.” He looks to his father once more. “Forgive me; I didn’t catch it.”  
“This goes beyond tiredness, doesn’t it, Light?” Souichirou lowers his voice, so as not to be overheard by his conversing men.  
“What do you mean?” Light drones. As he feels himself start to zone out again, the pain in his stomach worsens.  
“Is there anything I should know?”  
“No.”  
“I think you’re being pushed too hard; you’re obviously stressed. Ryuzaki, will you allow him a break?”  
“I understand that Light-kun’s health-”  
“I’m fine,” Light interjects. “I can work.”  
“Light-kun is clearly unwell; it may be best for him to take a break until he’s feeling better.”  
“I’m fine, Ryuzaki. I feel better now, anyway.”  
Both L and Souichirou see straight through Light’s lie, though they hold their tongues as they observe the teenager leaning forward to place the bowl and mug, whose contents remain untouched, on the table before him.  
“I...I should get back to work.”  
“Light-kun does not have to.”  
“No, no!” Light stands up, perhaps a little too fast, as the sudden lightheadedness is almost too much to bear. “I…” he staggers forward as his heart pounds and palpitates, “I want to.”  
He just manages to get his sentence out before his vision blotches. The room starts spinning around him; he makes out voices calling his name, but cannot respond. He feels weak - so very weak, absolutely _enervated_ \- and so dizzy.

So, so dizzy...


	15. Chapter 15

_Thud_.

Two chained bodies drop to the cold, solid ground. L shouts out Light’s name simultaneously with Souichirou and Matsuda as he falls, with shock seizing him, engulfing him whole. As Matsuda jumps out of his chair and sprints over, Souichirou sinks to a crouch, gaping at the sight of his son’s prone, limp body. Droplets of sweat bedaub the chief’s forehead, and his chest tightens as dread floods his being. Filled with equal panic, L frenetically crawls nearer, wincing at a sudden pain shooting through his right knee, and brings two fingers to Light’s neck, checking for a pulse. A sigh of relief escapes his parted lips when he feels a slow, steady beat.

“Light-kun!” Matsuda repeats, dewy-eyed, as he falls to his knees before the unconscious teenager.  
“Is he breathing?” Aizawa calls out as he rushes over with a wide-eyed Mogi not far behind him.  
“Light-kun has a pulse,” L declares, slipping back into character and assuming a crouch.  
“But is he breathing?”  
Without hesitation, L turns Light onto his back with his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He brings an ear close to Light’s face, listening for signs of life.  
“Shouldn’t we call someone‽” Matsuda questions, his quivering voice slightly muffled by the hand over his mouth.  
“I-I’ll call an ambulance,” a nauseous Souichirou sputters as he rises to his feet, scarcely able to prevent himself from shaking as his pulse pounds in his ears.  
“That won’t be necessary, Yagami-san,” L states as he pulls away. “Light-kun is breathing. This shouldn’t last long.”  
“No, he’s not well. We need to call someone,” the panic-stricken chief insists.  
“This seems, to me, at least, to be a simple syncopal episode,” L opines. “I shall call Watari. He should be able to treat Light-kun.”  
“A ‘simple’ syncopal episode!?” Souichirou parrots.  
“Likely due to dehydration,” L states soporifically, mentally chiding himself for his negligence.  
“Shouldn’t we at least get him off the floor?” Mogi asks.  
L nods with an assentive hum and, without further delay, picks Light up bridal-style. He’s dead weight. Floppy and comatose.  
“D-do you need help carrying him, Ryuzaki?” Matsuda asks, standing up in tandem with L, wanting to make himself useful for once.  
“I am more than capable of doing this alone. Light-kun is not heavy,” L denies the offer of help.  
“Are you absolutely sure we don’t need to call an ambulance?” the chief questions, bewildered and irresolute.  
“Watari is perfectly capable of determining whether Light-kun needs a hospital visit or not.”  
L carefully lays Light down on the nearest settee. Before he backs away, he furtively strokes the brunet’s right cheek with three fingertips, hoping he might respond to the familiar gesture. It’s in vain; Light is out cold, and unresponsive to all external stimuli. L sighs then reaches into his jean pocket to retrieve his mobile phone, retreating behind the settee as his pacing and frenzied colleagues nervously chat amongst themselves. He navigates to his contacts and dials Watari’s number.  
_“How may I be of assistance?”_ Watari answers in English.  
“Light’s just fainted,” L informs him in English, keeping his voice down.  
_“Is he unconscious right now?”_  
“Yes.”  
_“How long has he been so?”_  
“A little more than a minute, or thereabout. Completely unresponsive.”  
_“How is his pulse?”_  
“Slow.”  
_“And his breathing?”_  
“Normal, as far as I can tell.”  
_“And where is he?”_ Watari asks, his voice accompanied by the sound of a key turning in a lock.  
“On the settee.”  
_“Yes, but in what position?”_  
“On his back.”  
_“Put him in the recovery position.”_  
“Alright.”  
L moves apace, swatting a noisy Matsuda out of the way to move the teenager. Matsuda doesn’t protest and keeps his distance, rushing to the chief’s side. With unsteady hands, Souichirou dabs at his slick forehead with a handkerchief as Matsuda reassures him everything is going to turn out alright, though he sounds equally as disconcerted as the chief feels.  
_“On his side with his arm supporting his head and his knee drawn up,”_ Watari instructs.  
“I know,” L replies, turning Light onto his side with his free hand.  
“Do you need help, Ryuzaki?”  
“No, Matsuda-san,” L sighs, correctly positioning Light’s leg.  
_“You are still in the main hall, yes?”_ Watari asks.  
“Indeed.”  
_“I shall be with you shortly. If he does not wake within the next...say thirty seconds, or if he stops breathing, or if you cannot feel a pulse, you must not wait for me.”_  
With that, Watari hangs up. L snaps his phone shut and returns it to his pocket, paying his panicked colleagues no heed as they witter incessantly. Just as he repositions Light’s head, the boy stirs ever so slightly. 

A sudden wave of relief washes over L as those beautiful brown eyes steadily open.

A grin attempts to force its way onto his face, but he manages to quell it, the corners of his mouth twitching only slightly. He has to stay in character. He has to appear impassive and insouciant. He cannot let his emotions show.

“Light-kun!” Matsuda shouts much too loud, making L flinch. “Hey, Chief, he’s waking up!”  
“Oh!” Souichirou exclaims in delight, dropping the hand clasped over his mouth to his side as he takes a few tentative steps towards his son. “Can you hear us, Light?”

A dazed Light blinks rapidly. Slowly, his irises move, and his pupils take in their surroundings. He gathers, after a moment, that he’s lying on his right side on one of the two settees in the main hall; L is crouching directly in front of him, and his father and colleagues are surrounding them, boring holes into his skull with their disparaging gazes as if he’s some sort of circus freak, as if he’s unreal. Something feels off. How did he end up here, again? Agh, there’s a dull pain in his left cheek, just below his eye.

“Light-kun?” L calls out softly, in a silvery, solicitous tone.  
“...What?” is the only word Light can get out amidst his mental fog. He speaks in a near-whisper.  
“You worry us sick, Light!” Souichirou proclaims, exasperated and afright. “How are you feeling? Do we need to call an ambulance?”  
“An ambulance? I…” Light pauses, unable to recall the events leading up to this moment, “what happened?”  
“Light-kun fainted,” L reveals.  
“Oh.”  
“‘Oh’!?” Aizawa echoes in disbelief, baffled by Light’s nonchalant reaction. “What’s that supposed to mean? You're-”  
“What is the last thing Light-kun remembers?” L unceremoniously interrupts.  
“Um…” Light begins, racking his muddled brain, “I stood up too fast. Got really dizzy.”  
“I have sent for Watari. He will be here soon to ensure Light-kun is okay.”  
“You didn’t have to.”  
“What do you mean we didn’t have to!?” Souichirou queries. “We panicked. For all we knew, it could’ve been Kira!”  
“W-well, it’s not, is it? I’m still alive. And besides, if I was being killed, what could Watari do about it?”  
“You may be alive, yes, but you don’t seem well at all,” Mogi states bluntly.  
“I’m fine,” Light insists in a voice void of emotion.  
“You’re not. Honestly, you look like death,” Aizawa elaborates.  
“That’s right!” Matsuda agrees, opening his mouth without thinking.  
“I’ve told you all I’m...just tired. Don’t worry about me.”  
“How can we not worry!? You just fainted!” Souichirou exclaims, with disquietude and frustration writ large upon his countenance.  
“I’m okay. I stood up too fast, that’s all,” Light attempts to reassure those around him.  
“I don’t think you’re telling us the full truth,” the chief comments.  
“I swear, I am!” Light lies.  
“Light-kun will not gain anything by lying about his health,” L states, subtly tipping the others off.  
“I’m not a liar, Ryuzaki,” Light retorts in a weak voice.  
“I’m starting to believe what Watari told me,” Souichirou avows.  
“What?” Light wonders what Watari told his father. Is that something else he’s forgotten?  
“You’re gaunt, Light.”  
“I’m not. I’m-”  
“Everyone has noticed,” Souichirou cuts his son off. His tone is forthright and forbidding.  
“You’re mistaken,” Light states defensively.  
“No, he’s not,” Matsuda confirms. “I get really scared for you.”  
“As do I,” Mogi states.  
“Me too,” Aizawa adds. “You know, I think you might need a break. You don’t seem well, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed your performance steadily decreasing over the past few weeks.”  
“Let me be,” Light retaliates monotonously, sluggishly. “I’ve told you all, I feel...fine.”  
Souichirou responds, but Light cannot decipher his muffled words. He’s zoning out again, staring at his robotic-seeming father with blank, glassy eyes. He keeps telling himself that he’s awake, that he’s not dreaming, that this is real, the people around him are real, and he is experiencing this right here and now, but he’s not convincing himself. An oppressive numbness shrouds him, dulling his senses, it’s...oddly calming, not feeling anything for once. Well, he can’t escape the pain in his cheek, however dull it may be. He’s realised now that he must have hit the ground face first. That’ll leave a bruise: a nasty, unsightly bruise to adorn his cheek coupled with the nasty, unsightly cuts bedizening his lip and the nasty, unsightly bruises littered across his back. They’re tarnishing his unblemished skin, making him look weak and damaged. He’s never going to reach perfection at this rate. He should know better, and he should know not to make sudden movements, he should’ve learnt from the last time he fainted! Why is he behaving like such an idiot lately? He barely gets any work done, he keeps losing track of time, he cannot seem to concentrate, why is he so _lazy_? Most days he doesn’t even want to get out of bed. But, he does, though movement has become a chore, because he knows he has to show up to work. He has to make his father proud, and he has to live up to everyone’s expectations; he cannot let a lifetime of stress and studying go to waste. He needs to pull himself together and work harder like he always used to. Maybe then he can be good enough, maybe then his father will be proud. Of course, he can’t be good enough if he’s not perfect, but he’ll get there, eventually. He’s put in too much work to let it amount to nothing. Fainting is a good sign, he thinks, for it tells him he’s making progress.

Ah, Watari’s here. Already?

The older gentleman approaches Light swiftly, with his first-aid kit in hand. L moves away to make space for him to crouch in front of the teenager, standing behind and leaning against the settee’s arm.

L says something that Light doesn’t quite catch, to which Souichirou, Aizawa, and Matsuda respond. L says something back before they disperse with little verbal resistance, mostly from Souichirou until Aizawa seemingly persuades him, and presumably return to their seats at the panel. Matsuda lingers, but L must soon convince him to leave them be. He sends Light another concerned look and utters one last thing before he too fades out of sight. It all seems to happen so fast. Light’s eyes wander back to Watari. He reads his lips. The man’s saying his name. Light realises, after an embarrassingly long time, that a response is expected.

“Huh?” he utters, trying to bring himself back into reality.  
“How are you feeling?” Watari’s voice is unclear, but the words are discernible.  
“Fine,” Light responds without hesitation this time.  
“Are you capable of sitting upright?”  
“Um…”  
It takes some effort, his muscles feel so weak, and his detached body doesn’t seem to want to obey his mind’s commands, but he manages to sit himself up in a matter of fewer than thirty seconds. The change of posture makes him feel dizzy, briefly blurring his vision.  
“Can I take a seat beside you?” Watari inquires, in a solacing tone.  
“Go ahead.”  
“Thank you, Yagami-kun.”  
With a slight blench, Watari rises and takes a seat to Light’s left, leaving his kit on the ground by their feet.  
“I am told you fainted?” the doctor discloses.  
“I-I guess so,” Light stammers.  
“Can you tell me how you felt?" Watari queries. "What of it do you remember?”  
“I got dizzy, and then I blacked out. I think I just stood up too fast. It’s not a big deal.” Light speaks fast, on the defensive.  
“How long were you out?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“About two minutes,” L clarifies.  
“Thank you, Ryuzaki.” Watari gives L a nod. “That _is_ a little longer than is typical, though not unheard of. How did you hit the ground, do you remember?”  
“Face-first. My cheek took the impact,” Light remarks as he brings his fingertips to the wound and pushes down. He grimaces at the steadily increasing pain, quickly returning his hand to his lap.  
“I see.” The doctor nods. “May I take your pulse?”  
“Okay.”  
“If you would be so kind as to lend me an arm?”  
Light nods and offers up his right arm. Watari’s pale, wrinkled fingers clasp around his bony wrist, silently detecting. Light's pulse is a little slow, but not irreversibly so. After a good minute, Watari lets go.  
“Before you fainted, did your heart rate seem normal to you?”  
“Yes.”  
“It was not racing or fluttering?”  
“I don’t think so. If it was, I didn’t feel it.”  
“And you believe you fainted because you stood up too quickly?”  
“Yes.”  
“Alright.” Watari nods once more. “No headaches, other pains, or muscle stiffness?”  
“No.”  
“How is your vision?”  
“Fine. It was a bit blurry, but probably just because I was zoning out.”  
“I see. You have not hit your head recently, have you?”  
“Definitely not,” Light says as he shakes his, assuredly uninjured, head.  
“Alright, good. How are you feeling at present?”  
“Normal.”  
“Okay. Have you had any other symptoms I should be apprised of?”  
“No.”  
“No febrility, no weakness, no malaise?”  
“None out of the ordinary.”  
“What do you mean by ‘out of the ordinary’?” Watari pushes for more information, unyielding.  
“U-um, I do get...weakness, but,” Light averts his eyes in shame, and lowers his voice until it’s barely above a whisper, “it coincides with when I haven’t had anything to eat for a while.”  
“What have you eaten today?”  
“...Nothing yet,” he admits hesitantly.  
“I think you should have something,” Watari persuades gently.  
“There is tamago kake gohan that Light-kun’s father made for him on the table,” L comments, his voice uninflected.  
“N-no.” Light shakes his head again, sending L a glance before staring back down into his own lap. “I don’t want that,” he elaborates quietly.  
“Perhaps you would like to go up to the kitchen and find something else? Something that you might prefer?” Watari suggests.  
“B-but, Ryuzaki…” Light’s voice comes out nigh-inaudible as he tugs at the chain with his right hand.  
“Of course, given your circumstances, Ryuzaki shall have to accompany you. I should not think that would be an issue for him.”  
“Watari is correct in thinking so,” L states.  
“...Do I have to?”  
“Yagami-kun…” Watari begins, trying to address the matter as delicately as possible, “you may not remember at the moment, but I retrieved a blood sample from you recently, which evinced to me your many deficiencies. You are undernourished, which I believe is one of the likely reasons you fainted. Nobody is forcing you to eat, not at the moment, but I am sure a sufficient meal would alleviate some of your physical symptoms.”

His blood was drawn? Now that it’s mentioned, Light seems to regain an ever so faint memory of a needle piercing his forearm, accompanied by the sound of violent sobs. That memory alone, despite how foggy and inchoate it is, sends a shiver down his bruised spine.

“I feel sick. Don’t want anything,” he protests.  
“When did you eat last?” Watari is unfazed by Light’s objections and continues in his noble pursuit.  
“Last night.”  
“Five PM is hardly nighttime,” L chimes in again.  
“Fifteen hours is rather a long time,” Watari avers, still sounding so understanding, so kindly.  
“Yes,” Light sheepishly concedes.  
“I think you should have a look at what we have in the kitchen if you do not want the rice.”  
“Fine,” Light snaps, giving in. He can’t resist a commiserating voice.  
“Thank you ever so much, Yagami-kun,” Watari says as he stands and grabs his kit. “You will visit my quarters tonight, and we will talk further.”

Watari’s tone makes it clear that this is an order, not a question. Light sighs, and replies with a simple:

“Yes.”  
“Thank you. If your physical symptoms progress, promptly contact me, and I shall see to you as soon as possible. Ryuzaki, a word?”  
“Of course,” L accepts.  
Watari and L move behind the settee and whisper to each other in what Light recognises as English. The chain, and by extension, Light’s arm, ends up in an awkward position, pulled across Light’s chest and over his right shoulder. The discomfort doesn’t bother him, for some reason. It’s odd, how detached, yet pliant, he feels. He understands very little of his elders’ hushed conversation, only catching a few words. He gathers they’re talking about him, and silently hopes they’re not trying to hinder his quest for perfection. 

Actually, given their scathing, impatient tones and speedy retorts, they sound like they're feuding...

How curious. Up until now, Light thought they seemed to get along.

After a couple of minutes, their argument seems to cool, at least slightly. There’s a slight rustling sound, as if something is being transferred from hand to hand then to pocket, before all susurration ceases and Watari begins to walk away. The distinct sound of his leather shoes hitting the ground echoes. The taut chain slackens as L moves, causing Light’s limp right arm to drop into his lap. He makes no effort to change his position until L is in front of him, holding out his hands. Without much thought, he reaches out and allows the detective to help him to his feet. He feels faint again and clutches L’s hands tighter, so tight they turn a waxen colour with the disturbance in circulation. L doesn’t seem to mind, which Light finds strange. Perhaps this is normal for them? What with how often he feels faint. He’s unsure what they are to each other, having forgotten so much. The other night, when they were debating about Kira, L confirmed they were friends, he remembers that. He should stop overthinking; they’re just good friends, nothing more and nothing less.

Now, why does that disappoint him?

When his vertigo diminishes, Light lets go of L’s hands and looks him in the eye. Now that he’s looking at them so closely, he’s realising just how beguiling L’s eyes are - a fascinating smoky shade; flecks of both light and dark grey surround inky pupils so large they seem constantly dilated. So much knowledge and strength and wisdom and emotion must hide behind those eyes...

He’s so lost in them that he doesn’t notice L tugging at the chain to attain his attention.

As L begins to fade out of sight, Light blinks, coaxing himself back into reality. He finds his left arm extended, L is pulling him towards the staircase using the chain.

Wait…

Hasn’t this happened before?

Suddenly, he remembers one time when they’d just exited the lift, L pulled him back to their quarters as if he were naught but a mere pet, a faithful dog on a lyam ready to excitedly heed every command. Light’s getting the feeling he made L very angry that night. Wait, it wasn’t nighttime, was it? Why were they retreating to their quarters?

Consumed by his thoughts, he allows L to lead him forward until he regains one memory in particular. One that makes him whimper in distress and stop dead in his tracks.

That same day, L, in an outburst of rage, had flounced into the bathroom, dragging Light across the floor as he did so. Light remembers the rough carpet scraping against his skin. Luckily, it didn’t leave a mark. Why had he been on the floor, anyway?

Vigilant, L tries to lure Light nearer, but the boy won’t budge, no matter how hard L tugs at the chain. He stands motionless with a look of sheer terror besmirching his pretty face. With a sigh, L retraces his steps, advancing towards his companion. The boy takes a step backwards, trying to distance himself. As soon as Light moves his foot, though, L yanks the chain. Another half-suppressed whimper escapes Light, and he stumbles as L pulls him forward, nearly tripping over his own feet.  
“Ryuzaki!” the brunet blurts out.

L halts, then turns to face the teenager. Conspicuous contempt clouds his countenance.

“I...I’m going to faint again if you’re not careful,” Light hisses sotto voce.

L scowls slightly, then releases the chain from his grip, letting the majority of it drop to the floor with a clink as it hangs limply from their wrists. He approaches his younger once more. He has to be gentle, he reminds himself, no matter how irritated he’s getting. This boy is ill.

“Let me carry you,” L responds just as quietly.  
Light glances over his shoulder. Nobody seems to be watching. He looks at L again and nods. L bends down slightly, tucking his right arm behind Light’s knees and taking him into his hold. He straightens his back a little, for both convenience and comfort, confident his colleagues are paying him no mind. As Light wraps his arms around L’s shoulders, his heart begins to flutter uncontrollably.

Now he’s recalling the first time L carried him. He was beside himself. It was the first time he cried in front of L. It was the first time he’d been caught ridding himself of his guilt. It was the first time he’d told anyone his most heavily-guarded secret. He’d felt vulnerable and dismal.

The second time...well, the memories of that night are especially hazy. All he knows is that he was a whinging and whining mess, eagerly squirming in L’s arms as he was carried into the bedroom. He’d felt feverish and impure.

The third time was much the same. Oh, God, he remembers now! He’d been force-fed, backed against a wall and defiled as punishment for refusing in the first place, then made a spectacle of in front of the entire Task Force. He’d felt humiliated and irate.

At present, he feels confused, yet contented withal. He smiles, glad he’s regaining his memories. They’re about a quarter of the way up the staircase now. Light wishes he could walk, but he knows that if L puts him down, his legs are going to give out. It’s only been fifteen hours. Last time, it had taken one hundred and two hours for him to black out. He doesn’t remember exactly why he starved for so long, only that he’d felt unbearably guilty. He knows he wasn’t atoning for one of his indulgent episodes, no, it was something far worse and far more complicated than that. He must have done something truly despicable. Sayu forced ramen down his neck after that. Luckily, she didn’t question him when he excused himself and retreated upstairs. She had good intentions, and he didn’t want to worry her any further after he fainted right in front of her, but he didn’t feel he deserved food after what he’d done. He wishes he could remember what it is he did to make him feel so horrible. He misses Sayu. As he sighs, he wonders how long it will be before he’s allowed to see his mother and sister again. Oh, he’s made so much progress since he’s been gone! They’re going to be so proud of him. Hopefully, his unsightly wounds will have healed by then. Hopefully, he’ll have reached perfection by then. His mother always tells him how proud of him she is. He knows what she really means is “I’m impressed by your test scores”. He needs to work harder. He needs to study when he gets the chance. Perhaps he’ll ask L for some materials, he feels like such a burden on weekends, just watching L work on all his cases whilst he cuddles up to him and wallows in his own disjointed thoughts. He asks L if he can be of assistance, but L always says help is unneeded, that he prefers to work alone. God, does that make Light feel useless! But, he keeps his mouth shut, for cheek gets him chastised. Huh, funny he remembers that and practically nothing else. There’s more to him and L than he can tell right now, though he finds solace in the knowledge that he’s going to figure everything out soon.

The longer Light spends in L’s arms, the more mollified he finds himself. By the time they’ve reached the kitchen, he’s dozing off.  
“Do you think you can stand?” L’s voice brings him to.  
Blinking violently, the brunet pulls his head away from the shoulder it rests on.  
“I’m not sure,” he confesses.  
“Would you like to try?”  
“Um…”  
“If you lose your footing I’ll catch you, okay?”

Something about that tone of voice imbues this curious feeling within Light, a feeling he can’t quite put his finger on, something warm and fuzzy and _consoling_.

“Alright,” he agrees.  
Softly and slowly, L puts him down. He feels fine for the first few seconds he’s on his feet before the lightheadedness seizes him once more. Instinctively, he grabs onto L’s forearms to steady himself.  
“How do you feel?” L inquires. His voice is so very soothing.  
“Lightheaded.”  
“Do you need to sit?”  
“I think so.”  
L frees himself from his younger’s loose grasp with minimal effort. He snakes an arm around the boy’s back, steadily guiding him towards a counter next to the fridge. A nauseous Light stumbles, his weak knees are so close to giving out again, and throws a shaky hand over his mouth as he chokes back the acrid bile that rises into his throat and burns him. Though he only has to take a few steps, he feels like he’s just run a marathon given how his heart is racing and skipping beats. With his last bit of strength, he pushes himself up onto the counter.

L stares.

L stares raptly, clearly unsettled, as candid concern tears away his dispassionate mask and besmears his exposed visage.

“Why are you staring?” Light murmurs, wondering if he’s done something wrong.  
“O-oh, sorry,” L averts his gaze. “You don’t look well.”

That’s an understatement. Light is almost deathly wan. He’s a trembling wreck sapped of all energy and life. His only colour, a pale rouge, is situated in his cheeks.

“I think I just need something to eat.”  
“Right,” L enunciates, meeting the teenager’s eyes once more. “What would you like?”

Light pores over his choices for a short while.

“...Wakame,” he decides, at last.  
“Wakame isn’t a meal,” L counters in a firm voice.  
“But that’s what I want.”  
“You’ll eat something proper, Light.”  
“But-”  
“No excuses. Watari said you need to start nourishing your body properly or there will be dire consequences, and sooner than you might think.”  
“Fine, what else do we have?”  
Notwithstanding Light’s petulant whine of a reply, L remains calm and steps to the left, opening the fridge. He studies its contents.  
“Something with eggs?” he suggests after a few seconds.  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“I don’t want eggs.”  
“And you don’t want rice?”  
“No.”  
“Nor meat nor fish nor pasta, as usual, I’m assuming?”  
“No.”  
“You’re not going to eat miso soup again, are you?”  
“That I wouldn’t mind.”  
“Seriously, Light, that’s practically all you’re surviving on. Won’t you try something else?”  
“I can’t.”  
“Please?”  
“Really, I don’t think I’m brave enough.” Light’s voice trembles.  
“...Do you like celery?” L inquires after brief black noise, sounding a tad gentler.  
“Sure.”  
“Watari always makes me celery soup when I fall ill. I think we have all the ingredients. Does that sound okay?”  
“...I’ll try.”  
“I’m glad!” He smiles to himself, obscured from Light’s vision by the fridge’s door. “Is there anything you’d like with it, Dear? Some bread?”  
“No.”  
“Just soup?”  
“Just soup.”  
“Alright.”  
L acquiesces, shutting the fridge before turning around to wash his hands. The fact Light has agreed to try something new gladdens him. That’s a step in the right direction. L knows not if he wishes to continue exploiting the illness that’s surely killing the poor kid. He didn’t expect it to progress to this extent. He should’ve noticed this sooner, should’ve intervened sooner, and should’ve been more strict once he found out. He shouldn’t be so remiss, allowing Light to go more than a day without anything to drink, it's no wonder he fainted! He deems this his fault, for he is the puppetmaster governing Light and almost everything around him, causing the poor child to desperately entwine himself around anything that gives him even the slightest sense of control.

History is repeating itself.

_“How is he?” L, perched upon B’s bed with his knees drawn up against his chest, inquired eagerly.  
“He’s fucked in the head,” B sneered in reply, closing the door behind him as he marched into the bedroom, tremulous with choler. “Like you,” he said with a deceitful, toothy grin. “Like me. Like us. Like everyone else in this shithole.”  
L didn’t respond, watching nervously as B’s grin mutated into a frown.  
“Damaged little orphans.”  
Remaining silent, L gulped as B advanced towards him with a steady gait, bracing himself for whatever was to come next.  
“How pathetic,” B spat with contempt. “Woe is us, huh, Lawli?”  
“Be careful,” L hissed, glowering at his fellow dark-haired, lanky teenager. “You know you can’t throw my name around like that.”  
“Shut up!” B scoffed, making L flinch. “My sweet Lawliet, have you any idea what you’ve done?”  
“I’m sorry.”  
L gulped once more, almost cowering as he shifted to sitting with his legs straight.  
“You’ve fucked us up!”  
B raised his voice. Tears began to well up in L’s eyes as he heard those footsteps growing nearer.  
“You’ve fucked me up, you’ve fucked A up, you’ve fucked us all up! Wammy’s told you you’re so smart, so special, right? So fucking special that you need us to follow in your hallowed footsteps and succeed you, to walk upon your consecrated ground as you did before us!”  
L recoiled further, a single tear streaming down his chalk-white cheek as B leaned in close, far too close for comfort, put his hands at either side of his coeval, and pinned him to the bed. L shuddered at the feeling of B’s breath against his exposed neck. How ironic that such redolent strawberry-scented breath would escape a mouth that spat such acerbic poison.  
“Look at you now, turning on the waterworks, like you always do. You’re not the victim here.”  
“I know,” L said through clenched teeth, his voice quivering.  
“A is distraught because of you. Can't you see what you’ve done? Surely, you’ve noticed how thin he’s getting? Surely, you’ve noticed the bags under his eyes? He’s under way too much pressure to succeed. You’re overworking him. You’re destroying him.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it, L!”_

“Ryuzaki?”  
L jumps. Lissome digits tugging at his sleeve pull him from his trance. Flowing tap water scalds his hands, so he pulls them away posthaste.  
“Dear, please sit!” he urges, turning off the tap.  
“I made you flinch,” Light realises. The quiver in his voice makes just how pitifully contrite he feels more than evident.  
“N-no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” L reassures his young companion as he pats his hands dry. “You simply surprised me.”  
“I called your name about five times, and you didn’t respond, I got scared…”  
“I was just thinking. You needn’t worry about me.”  
“Are you sure you’re getting enough sleep?”  
“Enough to function.” He clears his throat, then helps the teenager back to his seat atop the counter beside the fridge. “Right, where were we?”  
“Soup,” Light says softly, attempting to jog L’s memory.  
“Oh, of course! Now’s probably the time to tell you I’m not the best cook. Hence, Watari cooks for me.” L feigns soundness of mind with his casual tone.  
“It’s fine. I’ll still try it.”  
With a contrived smile, L nods. He steps to the left once again and reopens the fridge, from which he grabs a couple of stalks of celery.  
“I can’t promise you it’ll be any good,” he says as he turns around and walks over to the counter beside the stove.  
“I honestly don’t care how it tastes.” Light gives a single, breathy laugh as L grabs a cutting board and lays the celery atop it.  
“You’re sure?” L heads back to the fridge, from which he retrieves a clove of garlic and a potato.  
“Yeah.”  
“There's a million ways this could go wrong.”  
“I know. But I have faith in you and your abilities. Ah, could you use soy milk instead?”  
“You won’t drink regular milk?”  
“It makes me feel sick.”  
“I’m not sure the recipe will work with soy.”  
“Please? I can’t…”  
“Well, even if it doesn’t turn out right, I’m sure the result will be edible.”  
“Mhm!” Light nods with as much enthusiasm as he can procure.  
“Okay.”  
L complies with Light’s request, retrieving a carton of soy milk. This should be all he needs, minus things like the pan and the blender and the utensils. He closes the fridge’s door, then sets the carton down next to his board of ingredients.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” he states out of the blue as he’s chopping the celery.  
“Why?” Light cluelessly inquires.  
“You’ve agreed to try something new. And you’ve barely complained.”  
“I don’t feel well enough to complain,” he admits, watching intently as L sets the chopped celery aside and begins to skin the clove of garlic.  
“If you don’t feel any better after eating you must tell me, okay?”  
“Will do.”  
“Good boy.”

More recovered memories flood Light’s mind like a tsunami. He’s been extolled like that before…hasn’t he?

Oh, _God_, is that really what they’ve been doing‽ How impure, how...indecent!

“Ryuzaki?”  
“Hm?”  
“I’m missing a lot of memories, aren’t I?”  
“I believe so,” L says with a sigh.  
“But I think I just remembered some things we’ve done.”  
“Oh, indeed?”  
“You’ve...you’ve told me I’m good before, haven't you?”  
L freezes as he reaches for a bottle of oil.  
“...I have.”  
“We’ve never…done anything proper, have we?”  
“You’ve never let me.”  
“Oh.”  
L glances behind him. A pink hue is once again suffusing Light’s cheeks, after a short absence. He’s looking off to the side; his far-off gaze is fixated on the hardwood kitchen floor. L’s stomach churns with a sudden onset of repulsive guilt, so he averts his eyes. The oil is hard to reach, the chain that connects him to his younger is stretched to its full extent, as is Light’s arm. After a good few attempts, L does manage to knock it out of the cabinet and catch it mid-air. He sets the bottle aside and crouches down to retrieve a saucepan from the cupboard next to the stove. He’s seen Watari make this often enough and knows the recipe by heart, yet he still doubts his culinary abilities…

Oh, well. It’ll be edible, and he has a sickly child to feed.

Things go smoothly, and few words pass between the two. L is worried, to say the least. More worried than usual. Not just about Light’s declining physical health, but his declining mental health, too. He is especially worried about the boy’s apparent memory loss. The likely diagnosis, deduced per exclusionem by Watari, is psychogenic amnesia induced by severe stress. A temporary infirmity, he’d said, that he had assured L wasn’t likely to last more than a few days. Still, L frets, with this unrelenting feeling of remorse niggling away at his mind. Perhaps he can help Light regain his memories of their time together, and if he’s lucky, his memories of being Kira…

He has about twenty minutes to spare whilst the ingredients simmer. Best get to it.

“Light?” he calls out, stirring the pot one last time.  
No response comes. Puzzled, he turns his head to see why he hasn’t received a reply. Light still sits atop the counter, completely motionless as he stares at the floor. The poor dear’s shut off, heedless to the external world. He must be so tormented.

L sighs. At least he can take this opportunity to slip Light the electrolytes Watari supplied him with earlier.

He fixes Light a tall glass of water, constantly glancing over his shoulder as he does so. Light doesn’t react to anything going on, the automatic rise and fall of his chest and the occasional fluttering of his eyelids are his only movements. L remains undetected as he tears open the sachet he retrieves from his pocket and measures out a teaspoon of powder, which he dissolves in the beverage. The grating sound of the metal utensil clinking against the glass fills his ears. Everything seems to irritate him lately, every minor inconvenience makes him want to scream at the top of his lungs and take all these years of pent-up frustration and agony out on _something_! Every time he lays eyes upon Light’s macilent frame, he is racked with tear-fetching sorrow that makes him want to engulf that boy in his arms and be honest for once, to tell him how utterly breathtaking he was before he began to waste away. Every time he stares into those vacant eyes of Light’s, the guilt becomes overwhelming, and with each passing moment, it grows stronger, and becomes harder to bear.

_Fuck_, he mentally curses himself out, _I’m losing control of my emotions again_.

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his knotted hair in an attempt to regain his composure. Emotions only get in the way. If he shows emotion, it will be used against him, he will only end up hurt again, and he will have no one but himself to blame. He lets the breath escape him, returns the sachet to his pocket, then approaches his torpid companion slowly, with his drink in hand and his stomach aching with rue.  
“Light?”  
He catches the boy’s attention this time. That blank gaze meets his within seconds.  
“How are you feeling?” he asks, leaning against the counter. Light’s eyes track his movements slowly yet curiously.  
“Um...a little better,” Light replies after a few seconds, his speech slow and his voice hushed.  
“Take my hand.”  
Light’s blank expression is unchanging as L feels a noticeably cool hand clasp his. They interlock their fingers, and L squeezes Light’s hand in an attempt to ground him.  
“You’re quite cold.”  
“So are you.”  
“Is that unusual?”  
“Hm, no,” Light says after some silent consideration, his voice a little louder this time, glancing downwards as L slowly strokes his thumb with his.  
“Come now, have a drink,” L persuades, offering up the glass.  
This gets Light to move - he shifts his weight, adjusting his position as he charily eyes up the beverage.  
“What is it?” he questions hoarsely.  
“Just water,” L assures him, lying through his teeth.  
Light hesitates still, which is uncharacteristic of him, L notes. Water is the only substance he has never once tried to refuse.  
“Darling, it’s water. It’s not going to hurt you. Just have a sip for me, okay?”  
Light swallows. His throat _is_ dry. Ignoring his inner voice’s advice, he nods, signalling to L that he’s acceding.  
“Oh, good boy,” L panegyrises as he brings the glass’ brim to Light’s lips.  
Light takes two minuscule sips, then cranes his head backwards, wordlessly telling L he doesn’t want anymore.  
“I’m so proud of you for that, Dear,” L dons a fake smile as he sets the drink aside, placing it on the adjacent counter to Light’s right. “I’ve been careless,” he confesses, letting that smile diminish. “I’m sorry. I should’ve noticed you’d stopped drinking.”  
“My decision, not yours. Please don’t apologise,” Light says flatly.  
“Had I paid just a little more attention then you probably wouldn’t have fainted, and we wouldn’t be in this situation. It’s my fault, and I truly am sorry.”  
“It’s okay.”  
“You’re sure?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Can you forgive me?”  
“I forgive you,” he proclaims truthfully, though his monotone voice and his unnerving stare are unreflective of his candour.  
“Oh, I’m glad!” L professes with subtle, feigned mirth. “Now...how much do you think you’ve forgotten, Dear?” he finally addresses the elephant in the room.  
“I-I don’t know. I’m slowly remembering, I think.” Light’s voice shows a little more emotion with this sentence.  
“You think you’re remembering?”  
“It’s weird, I…” he wavers, as if trying to convince himself of something, “I know it’s happened, but it’s more like...this is a weird comparison, I know, but it’s like remembering a dream.”  
“You are remembering, yes?”  
“I guess so.”  
“Do you think there’s anything particular triggering that?”  
“Well, it’s...mostly when something happens to remind me of that scenario. Like, when my father told me to look at him...I remembered you doing the same.”  
“I see. What do you remember of the past year or so, Pet?”  
“I remember getting into To-Oh, which is where I met you. I met Misa...where did I meet Misa?”  
“You tell me.”

L’s tone changes upon the mention of that girl. He sounds irked and more aggressive than usual.

“She showed up at my house one evening.”  
“What?” L exclaims, sounding beyond bemused.  
“Yeah, she showed up at my door unannounced,” Light says casually, as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Um, I remember being with you and Misa on campus...then there’s a gap.”  
“No gaps before this?”  
“No, there are plenty. There are entire weeks I can’t recall. Well, I remember going to school and talking to my family and friends and stuff, but nothing beyond that.”  
“You don’t remember what you were doing in your free time?”  
“No.”

40%.

“After that memory of you and I and Amane-san on campus, what’s the next one you have?”  
“You explaining that I’m to be put under indefinite surveillance, then attaching the handcuffs.”  
“...You don’t remember your confinement?”  
“My what?”  
“Your confinement,” L repeats.  
“I...what do you mean by ‘confinement’?”  
“You consented to confinement to support your claim that you’re not Kira.”  
“Where was I confined?”  
“A cell.”  
“What‽”  
“Amane-san was arrested on suspicion of being the second Kira. You volunteered to be incarcerated as you thought you might be the first Kira. We held you both under constant surveillance for over fifty days.”  
“But...the killings continued?”  
“For the first two weeks, they ceased.”  
“What‽” 

Light’s voice trembles. He looks terrified.

“Which is why, Dear, I theorise that you were Kira when first confined, but somehow, the power passed to someone else, and you repressed all memory of being Kira,” L shares, sounding so dispassionate.  
“That’s...that’s ridiculous, I can’t-”  
“I can show you the footage if you’d like.”  
“You reckon I thought I _might_ be Kira?”  
“Subconsciously, you said. You thought you might be killing in your sleep, or perhaps you had multiple personalities.”  
“‘Multiple personalities’‽”  
“Your words, not mine.”  
“That’s absurd! I _know_ I’m not Kira, Ryuzaki. I never was and never will be. How could I _subconsciously_ be a mass murderer?”  
“Rich coming from a boy suffering from amnesia right now,” L derides.  
“I _know_ I’m not a murderer. I’m chained to you, and the killings continue. And if...if I really was confined, and the killings continued even then, I can’t be Kira.” A nonplussed Light feverishly attempts to make sense of all that’s being relayed to him, deaf to L’s mockery.  
“I have my suspicions. Mere coincidence cannot explain away the evidence I have against you and Amane-san. Anyway, Dear,” L eagerly changes the subject, “what do you remember of the past month we’ve spent together?”  
“Not much,” Light admits, breaking eye contact. He's still so confused by this whole 'confinement' fiasco he's just been told of.  
“No? What have you forgotten?” L brings his free hand to Light’s chin and pushes gently, then lets go as Light’s eyes meet his once again.  
“A lot of the time we’ve spent alone.”  
“You and I have grown quite close.”  
“I can tell.”  
“How close do you think we’ve grown?”

L purrs this question, his voice is low and inquisitive and _provocative_, yet, at the same time, he sounds concerned. It’s such a lovely voice, Light realises, one that’s making him shiver and permeating his very being with an overpowering sense of...well, he’s unsure what the curious little sensation is. It’s a pleasant feeling, one as sweet as sugar and as warm as the sun’s æstival rays.

“You’ve kissed me,” Light murmurs, breaking eye contact in embarrassment.  
“Do you remember the first time we kissed?”  
“Maybe. In the lift?”  
“No, no, we were in our quarters, on the settee. I was working, and you were complaining about being bored. Ring any bells?”  
“A few. It was the first weekend we spent together?”  
“That’s right.”

Light shivers once more. L’s tone is golden and ingratiating. It’s worming its way into Light’s mind and nudging at those faint memories to release them from their confines in the protective subconscious.

“I told you I hate...something?”  
“You told me you hated the things I did to you.”  
“Right.”  
“Then I asked if I could kiss you.”  
“I remember that.”  
“Afterwards, you told me you liked it.”  
“...I remember that now,” Light says with a smile. “But I don’t remember what we did before that, what I hated,” he adds as his smile fades.  
“Why did you pick a turtleneck this morning, Dear?”  
“Huh?”  
“Was it a mere fashion choice, or does it run deeper than that? Was it a subconscious decision, do you think?”  
“What are you on about?” His brow furrows.  
“I think you ought to look yourself in the mirror when you get the chance.”  
“I saw myself this morning.”  
“You saw your face, not your neck.”  
“My...what’s on my neck?”  
“Think about it, Dear, you’re smart enough to figure this one out.”

Light takes a little while to understand, his head a fuzzy mess as more disjointed and distant memories that his subconscious is so desperately trying to shield him from start to surface.

_Oh_. It hits him, at last. Of course.

“I’m covered in love bites, aren’t I?”  
“One or two,” L divulges. “They’re quite old and shouldn’t take long to fade.”  
“Oh, shit…”  
“Problem?”  
“No, it’s just I...why’d you threaten to kill me?”  
“Excuse me?” L scoffs, looking confused and somewhat offended as he stops stroking Light’s thumb.  
“You swore you’d kill me if I screamed,” Light states, sounding so sure of himself for once.  
“That isn’t how I remember it,” L refutes, sounding so sincere.  
“What?”  
“I simply told you to hush.”  
“No, you pinned me down, put your hand over my mouth, and said you’d kill me if I screamed.”  
“I can’t have said anything of the sort!” L is quick to defend himself. An external frown masks his internal smirk.  
“But that’s how I remember it. There were scratches and bite marks on your hand the next morning because I thought…”  
“What did you think, Light?”  
“I thought you were going to hurt me or something, I-”  
“And yet, I was the only one who ended up hurt.”  
“Huh?”  
“It’s as you said. Your attack left me with horrible marks. It’s a wonder no one questioned them at work.”  
“My attack?”  
“I was nothing but gentle with you, Dear. Your harsh retaliation frightened me, so if, _if_ I _did_ threaten you or say something that alluded to the fact that I meant to harm you, which I do not recall, I must have blurted it out amidst my shock. You know what shock can do to people, don’t you, Darling?”  
“Y-yes, of course. Forgive me; my memories must be getting mixed up…”  
“It’s alright, my pet. I hate to bring this up but…”  
“Go on,” Light goads, curious.  
“Is it possible you were the one making the death threat? Perhaps your confused mind has amalgamated two different memories into one?”  
“I don’t know. I don’t think I would threaten anyone like that.”  
“No?”  
“You know me well enough. Do I make threats?”  
“Well, there was one incident.”  
“Huh‽”

The genuine surprise in Light’s voice makes L feel sick. This is so tough to do, but a perfect opportunity has been handed right to him, and he simply refuses to pass it up. He can undermine Light’s confidence and make him feel unsure, make him question his memory, and make him question his innocence and dig further into his mind in an attempt to uncover the embattled truth L knows must be there, hidden deep inside.

“You were...in a bit of a state, and you threatened to reveal my identity.”  
“‘A state’?”  
“You were angry at me, I’d…” L puts on a remorseful tone of voice, “I’d gotten angry at you first and done something I now regret.”  
“What did you do?”  
“I kissed you against your wishes.”  
“Why would I get mad at you for that?”  
“I think you were madder at the fact that I’d just realised you were making yourself throw up and I was trying to comfort and help you when you so obviously didn’t want any help,” he blurts out abruptly.  
“I didn’t realise you were trying to comfort me. I’d just thought that…”  
“You remember this?”  
“A little. You pushed me against a wall and then to the floor. I think. Forgive me, but...I don’t really find that very comforting.”  
“Oh, Dear, I’m sorry about that! My frustration overtook me. That wasn’t right of me to do, not at all. I acted without thinking.”  
“Don’t apologise; I did the same thing.”  
“Oh?”  
“You say I threatened you. I can’t imagine I would ever do that unless I was upset.”  
“No, of course not. You’re a mild-mannered child, most of the time.”  
“‘Most of the time’?”  
“It's a shame how your mind torments you. Makes you prone to irrational outbursts.”  
“‘Outbursts’?”  
“Outbursts of anger, my darling. Surely, you remember your first date with Amane-san in this building?”  
“Of course, I do.”  
“What happened?”  
“You and I, we fought.”

Light gulps, tears brimming his eyes. Amidst all these gaps, the memory of that day is fresh in his mind. It’s one he'd rather forget. His stupid emotions took ahold of him, and he lashed out. Everyone was watching; he bets their eyes were glued to that screen like a hawk’s to its prey. Everyone saw what a pitiful, tempestuous varlet he can be. Everyone saw his imperfections.

“We did. Thankfully, that was the only time you have ever been violent towards me. And, naturally, the only time I have been violent towards you. You lash out in other ways, now.”  
“I know. Forgive me.”  
“I don’t take too kindly to orders.”

Light’s stomach drops. That’s the tone of voice that petrifies him. That’s the one L uses when he’s serious about something, the one he uses to let people know that his will is not to be opposed.

“Please, forgive me.”  
“Good enough,” L sneers coldly, then effortlessly switches back to his mellowed, mellifluous tongue. “See, I’m afraid that may be your one fault.”  
“Huh?”  
“You are so very stubborn and refuse to properly apologise when you know you’ve done wrong.”  
“Oh. I guess you’re right.”  
“I wish you wouldn’t act up. You make things so difficult for yourself, and I don’t like having to chastise you for it.”  
“I don’t mind you chastising me.”  
“Oh?”  
“As long as I deserve it.”  
“Do you remember the last time I chastised you?”  
“You didn’t let me finish,” Light pouts, averting his eyes in shame. What they’ve been doing is so improper, so embarrassing.  
“I did more than that, Dear.”  
“Really?”  
“Look at me.”  
“Fine.” He acquiesces.  
“The wounds on your lips. I inflicted them.”  
“Oh!” His eyes light up in a moment of clarity.  
“You took the pain so well,” L smirks suggestively.  
“R-really?” Light can almost feel his blush worsening.  
“That doesn’t ring any bells?”  
“Not really. I mean…” he shudders at the thought, “I remember the blood in my mouth. How it tasted.”  
“That’s all?”  
“I know how I felt, too.”  
“How did you feel?”  
“Like a failure.”  
“Why did you feel that way, Darling?” L asks with affected pity.  
“Obviously...I must have had an outburst, as you said. I failed to keep my emotions in check.”  
“And for that, you suffered the consequences.”  
“I want to be good for you. Believe me, I do.”  
“Oh?” he gives a short reply, goading Light for further information.  
“It’s just difficult sometimes. I’m too emotional, unlike you.”  
“You think I don’t feel?”  
“No! No, obviously, you feel. But most of the time you seem so impassive, so carefree. I’m envious.”  
“You shouldn’t be,” L says with a stoic expression.  
“Why?”  
“Believe me; you don’t want to be inside my head. Truthfully, I feel _so much_. I’ve just gotten good at hiding it.”  
“Can you teach me?”  
“Absolutely not. Anyway, _Darling_, I am not the focus of this conversation, you and your memories are.”  
“Of course.”  
“Stop averting your eyes. Really, Dear, what’s wrong?”  
“Nothing.” He looks back up into L’s murky orbs.  
“Don’t be ashamed, my pet. What happened happened, we can’t change the past.”  
“I want to know more.”  
“Do you?”  
“I want to remember.”

L forms an idea. One he has to mull over. Should he?

He kicks himself for caring about his suspect. Curse this sudden conscience getting in the way of all he has planned!

Tentatively, he leans in closer, studying Light’s reaction as he does so. Light looks momentarily startled, and a tad flustered as his eyes flit. He defensively leans backwards as L keeps moving in closer until his head hits the wall behind him. He gulps. L wrings his palm, then softly pecks him on the lips, just once. His eyes widen, and before he knows it, he’s longing for more. He's longing for the affection and comfort he has been so starved of his entire life. He's longing for touch, for that odd-yet-pleasant feeling for which he hasn’t yet a name. A sharp breath slips from his mouth as he’s starting to remember all the times those lips, those soft and _sweet_ lips, have met his. He barely has any time to process the fragments of those memories before L leans in again. Embarrassed, he shies away. L understands and pulls away slightly.  
“What’s wrong, Darling?”

Light shudders. His heart races. This is way too much. He needs time to figure all he’s recalling out.

“We should be careful,” he croaks. “Anyone could walk in.”  
“You’re just now worrying about that?”  
“I just don’t want-”  
“Don’t want to be seen like this? All flustered and flushed?”

He responds with a demure nod as he averts his gaze once more. L leans in closer, smirking as he whispers cloying words into Light’s ear:

“You’re _gorgeous_, Dear, especially like this.”

A frisson runs through Light. These feelings, these sensations, these returning _memories_, are overwhelming. He knows now that L has praised him like this before, he's assured him he’s beautiful, that he’s _perfect_. It’s so, so difficult to believe, but...he knows L doesn’t lie, not to him.

“I’m _weak_,” he says breathily, through gritted teeth.  
“How?” L inquires, still speaking directly into Light’s ear.  
“In a good way,” Light adds. “You make me feel weak.”  
“Are you sure that’s not just the hunger?”  
Light laughs, for the first time in L doesn’t know how long, as his elder pulls away and creates a comfortable distance. They meet eyes yet again.  
“No,” Light shakes his head slightly as he recovers from his giggling fit, “it's a different kind of weak.”  
“A good kind of weak?” L questions.  
“Yes.”  
“How curious…”  
“But I’m…” Light’s smile morphs into a frown, “also a bad kind of weak.”  
“Dwell not on the bad, my pet. Appreciate the good.”  
“I’ll try.”  
“I know you’re confused, Darling, but everything is going to be alright, okay?”  
“I just...my memories are all messed up. It’s frightening.”  
“You’ll be _okay_, my dear. This is only temporary.”  
“How do you know?”  
“Watari has assured me you’re likely to regain your memories within the next few days.”  
“Th-this will last days?” he murmurs, with watery, wide eyes. _Days_‽  
“Or hours, perhaps. Don’t worry, Light. You’ll recover. Trust Watari, okay? He’s a good man.”  
“You're sure I’ll remember again?” he whispers, blinking away tears that threaten to spill at any second.  
“I know you will. And if you cannot trust me, trust Watari. All he’s ever wanted in life is to help others.”  
“I…” he raises his voice to its normal level, “why would I not trust you?”

For a split second, L dons an expression of shock, of disbelief. Only for a split second, as he soon regains control over himself and yet again has his stolid mask secured. Still, it lingered long enough for Light to descry it, though in his disoriented torpor he doesn’t think much of it.

“My dear, I…” L trails off for a few seconds, thinking the words through before they leave his mouth, “I have tried _so_ hard to gain your trust, as you have gained mine. I fear my efforts have been in vain. You always give me vague answers about how you’re uncertain, which I take to mean you haven’t any faith in me. And, quite frankly, that hurts me.”

Light remains silent for a while, letting those words seep into his mind. That _hurts_ L. _He_, with his inconsiderate words, hurts L. What kind of a person is he? What horrid things has he been doing that he’s forgotten? Is he really who he thinks he is? He’s already hit L, and keeps having ‘outbursts of anger’, what else is he capable of? What exactly does he do during his outbursts that warrants such severe punishment? How much of this has his brain covered up? Oh, God, he needs to atone for this, he needs to be reprimanded, he needs to be manhandled and given an earful, everything that he’s done ought to be done to him, he needs…

Needs to calm down. L is telling him he needs to calm down.

He breaks free of his thoughts to find himself hyperventilating and trembling.  
“Slow your breathing,” L instructs, holding his younger’s hand tighter.  
“...I must be so horrible to you,” Light finally chokes out, knowing not how long he’s been like this.  
“Oh, hush, Darling, don’t say that! Take deep breaths for me, okay? You’ve got to compose yourself.”  
Light blindly obeys, trying in earnest to slow his rapid breathing. How can L be so kind to him when he is, clearly, so horrible in return?  
“That’s good,” L reacts to Light’s efforts, commending and consoling him. “Deep breaths, okay?”  
Light nods, finding a breathing pattern. L holds his hand tighter (Light swears that grip is tight enough to cut off his circulation), stroking his thumb again, and heartens him.  
“I know you’re frightened, my darling, but trust me, a few days isn’t a long time. Before you know it everything will return to normal, I assure you. I’m here, and you’re safe with me. I’m never going to hurt you.”  
Light nods one more time, exhaling a shaky breath.  
“You’ll be alright, Dearest. Here,” L picks up the glass, “have another drink.”  
Light takes it into his own hold this time, and takes a swig, his lips trembling but his hands steady. He sighs through his nose, then sets the glass down beside him. He’s calmed down a bit now, his breathing is no longer quite so erratic. Hang on...what's that smell?  
“Is something burning?”  
“_Oh, fuck_,” L swears in his mother tongue of English, whipping around and rushing over to his pot on the hob.

L’s sudden indelicacy surprises Light. His surprise is short-lived, as he focuses on how his hand suddenly feels very empty. Empty and cold.

He frowns, wishing L could hold his hand like that every single second of every single day. That would be nice.

“Well…” L begins, catching Light’s attention.  
“Is it still edible?”  
“It’s salvageable.” The detective nods to himself, prodding at the soon-to-be soup with the wooden spoon.

A genuine smile creeps onto Light’s face, and that’s when he realises.

_Oh no_, he laments. _Do I like him_?

“Come on,” L beckons Light, seated next to him at the dining table, nearer.  
“Why do I need to sit in your lap‽” Light, flushed to the point of resembling an apple, inquires nervously.  
“You’re not well, Dear,” L says with more mock-pity. “Won’t you let me take care of you?”  
“You’ve already cooked. That’s more than enough trouble to go through for me.”  
“Nonsense!” L tuts. “Please, come sit,” he urges as he pats his knee.  
Bashfully, Light stands, then stumbles his way into L’s lap when he loses his balance to a dizzy spell. L smirks at Light’s flustered expression and crimson cheeks, placing his left hand on the small of the teenager’s back. How prominent Light’s spine now seems alarms him, knocking that smile off his face. With his unoccupied hand, he reaches out and retrieves a spoonful of light green soup from the bowl in front of him on the table. Light’s eyes widen in fear as L brings the spoon to his lips, though he defies the voice in his head and doesn’t put up a fight, soon taking in the sustenance. L pries the empty spoon from Light’s mouth.  
“Swallow,” he orders. Saying this became tedious a long while ago.  
Light heeds the command. L has gone through all this trouble for him; eating it is the least he can do. Instantly, the guilt sets in, though this time he feels detached from the emotion, almost as if it’s not his. God, things are weird today. Why does he feel so out of place?  
“Good?” L questions.  
“It’s good,” Light replies, forcing a smile.  
“You don’t have to lie.”  
“I’m not! It really is good.”  
“This is the first time I’ve made it myself, actually. Usually, Watari cooks, as I said.”  
“You said he makes this for you when you’re ill?”  
“Indeed.”  
“I was under the impression that everything you eat must contain an ungodly amount of sugar…”  
“Oh, Pet!” L chuckles. “That’s only to keep me awake while I’m working. I don’t work when I’m ill and needn’t keep myself alert if I’m under Watari’s watchful eye.”  
“Sleep more,” Light suggests.  
“If you eat more, perhaps I shall.” L’s getting tired of this nagging, but doesn’t let that show, keeping a neutral tone.  
“Feed me, then,” Light giggles with a simper, batting his eyelashes.  
L complies, for once, and feeds his younger another spoonful.  
“You forgot your mascara this morning,” he points out.  
“Did I?” Light asks, his expression puzzled as he takes yet another spoonful in.  
“It’s no wonder. You were so out of it. You scared me, you know. I'm glad you seem to have improved.”  
“Fainting is an improvement,” he thinks out loud, though L perceives this as a question.  
“Of course not, don’t get that into your head. Now that you’ve reminded me,” he returns the spoon to the bowl, then reaches into his pocket and retrieves what looks like a packet of pills, “Watari tells me you’ve to start taking these with or after meals.”  
“What are they?” Light tenses up.  
“Vitamins. You need only take one twice a day; they won’t harm you. We just want to make you feel better.”  
“I can’t imagine my father took too kindly to you trying to drug me…”  
“He wasn’t consulted. And they’re not drugs. They’re vitamins.”  
“You haven’t told him?”  
“It’s none of his business. I doubt he’d understand, anyway. He’d only throw a fit about how we’re trying to drug and _pacify_ his perfectly healthy son.”  
“You’re right,” Light declares, making a moue. How does L know that?  
The crinkle of disturbed foil catches Light’s ear, pulling him from his pondering. He watches intently as L retrieves a tablet from the unlabelled packet, holding it between his thumb and index finger. It’s unlike any vitamin Light’s ever seen. It’s snow-white and circular with a jumble of little Latin letters and numbers that Light cannot make sense of on the surface.  
“Open your mouth,” L demands brusquely.

Light hesitates. L wouldn’t lie to him, right? No, of course not, L is the most honest person he knows. Besides, what would L gain by drugging him? If L says they’re vitamins, they must be. They’re peculiar-looking vitamins, indeed, but he’ll take L’s word. After all, L just wants to make him feel better. He wants what’s best for him.

A little while passes, and just as L is taking in a breath to repeat his peremptory command, Light parts his lips. L gives another contrived smile and slips the tablet into his younger’s mouth. He then takes the, by now half-empty, glass of electrolyte-laced water from beside the bowl and brings it to Light’s lips. Light does as he’s told, taking a swig and swallowing the tablet. That fuzzy feeling swells within him again as he realises how much he must mean to L, who takes such good care of him. The pleasant feeling quickly mutates into horrendous guilt when he realises how much he must upset L, who has to put up with his stupidity every single day.

_I’m such a burden_.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while as L continues to spoon-feed his dispirited companion. Their silence is broken when L hisses:  
“Someone’s coming.”  
He virtually shoves an unsuspecting Light from his lap and into the chair to their right, and Light cannot hold back the resulting confused whimper. They both reposition themselves - L hurriedly assuming Ryuzaki’s signature crouch, Light going through the well-practised motions of sitting up straight, crossing his legs, clasping his hands in his lap, and holding his head high - as the door to their left opens with a jarring creak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter ends on a bit of a weird note. This bitch was originally 18.5k words but I thought that was excessive, especially when compared to the length of the other chapters, so I trimmed it down a touch and decided to split it into two separate chapters.
> 
> Also, gaslighting is a horrible abuse tactic that no one should ever tolerate nor indorse. I so badly wanted to hop into the fic world just to deck L when I was writing this, why do I do this to myself? Perhaps I'm a little too emotionally invested in this story, after all...


	16. Chapter 16

Light lets a relieved sigh escape him when he identifies Matsuda as the encroaching individual.

The suited man, who has a bowl and a couple of empty mugs in his hands, looks puzzled as he studies the scene before him.  
“Matsuda-san,” L utters with his thumbnail between his teeth. “What is it?”  
“I’m getting more coffees,” Matsuda replies as his puzzled expression slowly fades. “Are you feeling better, Light-kun?”  
“Yes,” Light forces a smile, “I feel much better now.”  
“This is your dinner tonight.” Matsuda smiles back, raising the arm with the bowl of TKG in it ever so slightly. “I’ll wrap it in cling film and write your name on it so that you can find it easily.”  
“Thank you, Matsuda.”  
“Light-kun…” His smile fades, and he suddenly sounds strangely sombre.  
“Yes?” Light, too, lets his false smile diminish.  
“Are you sure you’re alright?”  
“I’m fine,” he laughs the question off. “Don’t worry.”  
“I can’t help but worry after what happened earlier.”  
“I stood up too fast, that’s all. Please, don’t make a fuss.”  
“We’re friends, right?”  
“O-of course,” Light stutters, taken aback by that question.  
“Then speak to me, please.” Matsuda takes a few steps nearer. “We’re all worried sick. The chief could barely hold himself together once you two left.”  
“I’m alright, Matsuda,” Light insists, his calm voice disguising the pure panic he’s feeling within.  
“You can talk to me about it any time, you know?”  
“There’s nothing to talk about.”  
“I might be stupid, but even I can tell there’s something wrong! Please, let’s talk it through?”  
“Thank you for your concern, Matsuda-san,” L responds before Light has the chance to. “But I have told Light-kun before that both Watari and myself are willing to listen, should he wish to confide in someone.”  
“That’s right,” Light confirms with a nod. “Matsuda, I’m fine.”  
“The more you say that, the more I don’t believe you.”  
“Why would I lie to you?”  
“I know you might think this is something shameful, but, I promise you I won’t think of you any differently because of your problem. The others might not understand, they’re old-fashioned, but-”  
“I don’t have a problem,” he reiterates. “Trust me, you and Ryuzaki would be the first people I’d tell if I did,” he adds with another fake grin.  
“Has he told you anything, Ryuzaki-san?” Matsuda glances at L with the look of a sad puppy.  
“If Light-kun had confided in me, I would not repeat that which he said without first obtaining his permission.”  
“And do you give him permission?” he asks, gazing into Light’s eyes. Those eyes display a dolorous, dismal desolation that he simply cannot dissimulate.  
“This is silly,” a dismissive Light again laughs the question off. “Please, just drop this. I’m only stressed, that’s the extent of it.”

There’s an awkward silence. Matsuda so badly wants to help his friend, but what is he to do when that friend refuses to open up about what’s bothering them?

“Light-kun?” Matsuda breaks the silence.  
“Yes?”  
“I’ll always be here for you.”  
“Thank you,” Light replies with a slight bow of gratitude.  
Matsuda gives a lopsided, unhappy smile as he walks away. Light watches, on his guard, as his friend disappears behind the kitchen door.

Another sigh escapes his wounded lips as he lets himself slouch in his chair. People are getting suspicious. This isn’t good at all; he’s going to have to be more cautious. He’s going to have to hone his acting skills; they’re getting rusty. He's going to have to deny everything vehemently, he can never tell anyone about this, they’ll only freak out and brand him a maniac and-

The pale fingers curling around his own catch his attention. He turns his head and meets L’s evocative gaze. The detective need not speak; his eyes show Light how he feels: sorrowful and solicitous. He wrings Light's palm, then runs his thumb over the back of that hand, just once this time. Light sighs once more, his breath catching, and he blinks back tears as he rests his right elbow on the table and leans into his balled fist.

L watches silently as Light, who he can tell is so very close to falling apart, fights to maintain his composure. He’s amazed that boy has the strength within him to hold back those tears that are welling up in his sad eyes. The boiling kettle’s muffled hiss seeping out from the kitchen through the ajar door is the only sound pervading the room. On the qui vive, L glances behind. Matsuda does not seem to be peeking. Thus, he slowly leans in closer to Light to speak sotto voce into his ear:  
“Simmer down, Pet,” L urges in a tone he hopes is encouraging. “We don’t want Matsuda fretting, do we?”  
Light’s only reply is a shallow exhalation. He then purses his lips, blinks back his tears, and leans into his chair, putting his hands on his knees. _Can't show weakness_, he reminds himself as he takes a few deep breaths. He absolutely mustn’t let himself crumble, not now, not in front of others. He must reign in these emotions that are spiralling out of his control. It shouldn't be this difficult of a task. He's got to keep control, got to…

His train of thought derails, disappearing from memory as if it were but a breath upon a mirror, and his mind goes blank.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when L brings him to by waving a hand in front of his face. His eyes track that hand’s movements, though it’s not a conscious decision. In a matter of seconds, the hand fades from sight, and he’s left staring at the blank wall before him.  
“Are you alright?” L whispers. Light can barely just comprehend the question.  
“Yeah,” the word escapes Light automatically, without prior thought.  
“How do you feel?” L asks just as quietly.  
Light cannot think how to reply to this. He’s not feeling anything right now. He’s just numb. Numb and misplaced. The hand periodically squeezing his is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, reminding him of here and now. It's the only thing reminding him of L’s presence, his presence, and Matsuda’s presence not so far away. The kettle has boiled, Light realises, he can’t hear it anymore.

Things are quiet. Silent, almost: so mind-numbingly quiet, it’s so tempting just to let himself drift off and…

He perceives a sudden movement to his left, then L’s hand unclasps his. Empty again. Cold again. The kitchen door creaks, and that’s when he knows Matsuda must be coming back in. Even as out of it as he is, he knows he must feign wellbeing and self-command. He holds his head high and his body, on autopilot, takes care of the rest for him, sitting him up straight and making him look as unimpaired and unfazed as possible. He discerns approaching footsteps, then something being laid on the wooden table in front of him.  
“Thank you, Matsuda-san,” L expresses his gratitude for the caffeinated beverage and the multitude of sugar cubes placed before him in a teacup and saucer respectively.  
“No problem,” Matsuda, now empty-handed, responds, then glances at Light. “Light-kun?”  
“Hm?” Light, consciously this time, returns the eye contact.  
“I’m not convinced you’re okay.”  
“Let it go, please. I’m stressed, that’s all. The past few months have been overwhelming.”

The aberrant monotony in Light’s voice makes it abundantly clear to Matsuda that something is off.

“Something’s off with you,” he proclaims as he shakes his head, that atypical expression of worry still plastered across his profile. “I first noticed when you were sent to Watari the other week; I’d never even seen you cry before. It just wasn’t like you. Then when the chief returned without you and Ryuzaki-san and told us you needed rest for the night and that was all, I did think the way he was acting was off, too. He seemed like he didn’t want to talk; he was just telling us three to get back to work, and wouldn’t give proper answers when we asked about you. Ever since then, he’s been bringing you snacks during work hours, which I’ve never heard you ask for. Did he figure something out that evening that you didn’t want him to? Is that why you’re so stressed all of a sudden?”  
“Matsuda…” Light groans, his unfocused mind unable to string together a proper argument.  
“Matsuda-san,” L interposes, tossing sugar cubes into his coffee, “it is not your place to pry. I am sure that if Yagami-san and Light-kun wished to involve you in their interpersonal affairs, they would have done so a good while ago.” L stares his colleague down as he picks up his teacup in Ryuzaki’s eccentric manner. “Ah, and now that I’m thinking about it,” he takes a sip of his viscous concoction, breaking his fast, “where is that coffee you were fixing for the rest of the Task Force? Your hands seem to be quite empty.”  
“...I’ll tend to that now. I’m sorry for interfering,” Matsuda mutters, crestfallen. “Light-kun?”  
“Yes?”  
“Remember, I’ll always be someone you can talk to.”  
“Thank you,” Light says with a factitious smile.  
With that, Matsuda takes to his heels and enters the kitchen once again. Light, now uncomfortably shackled to and fully aware of his surroundings and his emotions, awaits anxiously for no more than a minute before he hears the kitchen door creak open. Matsuda, with two mugs of coffee somehow balanced within each hand, says nothing as he departs and leaves L and Light alone again. A few seconds pass, then L’s spontaneous, deep sigh catches Light’s ear. He looks to his left and observes as his elder returns to a normal sitting position.  
“Now,” L meets Light’s eyes, “shall we continue?”  
Light cocks his head, donning a befuddled expression. What does that mean?  
“Come here,” L beckons, “your soup is getting cold.”  
“...I’m not an invalid,” Light mumbles as a fetching blush suffuses his cheeks.  
“Dear,” L shoots his younger a condescending look, “let me take care of you.”  
“Is that what you want?”  
“More than anything. It’s my fault you fainted; please let me make up for it,” he expresses his (mostly false) regret, steeping each apologetic word in saccharine honey.  
“...Alright.”  
Light defers to L’s desires, crawling out of his chair and into L’s lap to continue what they were doing before the interruption. No matter how unnecessary Light thinks this, he knows he must keep L happy.

Light manages to get through the rest of the day without stirring up another commotion. He dismisses his colleagues’ concerns and attributes everything to mere tiredness and stress, adheres to his father’s desires and chokes down that fattening rice he made him, and actually gets some work done. As ten PM approaches, L and Light are alone in the main hall, their colleagues having taken their leave for the night some time ago. On a typical night, the chained pair return to their quarters at ten thirty PM. However, tonight is not typical.  
“Light?” L calls out after saving and backing up his work.  
“Hm?” Light looks away from his screen to reply.  
“Watari wants to see you tonight, remember?” L’s monitor goes black as he turns his computer off. “We best not leave it too late.”  
“O-oh, of course.”  
Light follows L’s lead, backing up the work he’s done as L makes his way over and stands at his side. As Light’s monitor flickers off, the room dims to near-blackness. Light stands and follows his elder across the room and up one of the staircases. They navigate the maze of corridors then enter the lift, and in no time at all, they reach their floor. No words pass as the two traverse the lustreless hallway and make their way to Watari’s quarters with external fronts of calmness. Inside, Light is sick with worry, so many questions run through his head as a lump forms in his throat and the most horrid, nauseating feeling invades his stomach. He wills himself to go through with this, for he knows L is going to give him an earful if he doesn’t, though he finds even the idea of Watari intruding abhorrent. The idea of _anyone_ prying into his personal affairs and trying to use his feelings against him he finds utterly abhorrent, it’s-

L’s knock startles Light, who flinches at the sudden sound. They’ve reached Watari’s quarters now.

“Do come in!” Watari’s muffled voice can just about be heard from behind the door.  
Silent still, L pushes down on the ornate silver handle and opens the door just wide enough for him to get through, then slips inside with one oddly graceful movement. Light takes a deep breath, then follows his elder inside, opening the door a little wider in order to get through himself. Watari is sitting in a black leather desk chair, opposite an expensive-looking black settee embellished by embroidered white antimacassars and a white glass-top coffee table in the far left bottom corner of the room. The coffee table is empty but for a white doily and a small terracotta-potted plant laid in the centre. An abundance of monitors that seem to be showing CCTV footage is strewn across the wall directly opposite the entrance. In the centre of this monitor-laden wall lies a closed white wooden door identical to the one Light’s just walked through. In the far right upper corner of the room, there is a computer set up and more monitors, varying in size, perched atop a black wooden desk. In the lower right corner, several unopened white cabinets lie, extending along the wall leading towards the computer setup. The walls are covered in a plain black wallpaper and are otherwise unadorned by paintings or clocks or other such decorations.

Light feels he’s definitely seen this room before. He’s definitely been in this room before, that much he has been told by three people today. So, why can’t he remember coming here? Why can’t he remember what happened here? Why does he keep associating needles and crying with this room?

“Please, feel free to take your seats,” Watari, looking as immaculate as ever in his suit and tie even at this late hour, greets the pair and gestures to the settee in front of him.  
L takes a glance at Light, who hastily shuts the door behind him. The deferential brunet waits for his elder to lead the way, but it just doesn’t happen. Given a few seconds, he realises he shall have to be the first to react, for once. On tenterhooks, he slowly makes his way over to Watari, with L tailing him. The anxiety is unwavering as he takes a seat, careful not to displace the antimacassars - even they look expensive. L seems less bothered about the value of these items as he practically flops down onto the settee and quickly makes use of the armrest to his left. Light is momentarily shocked by L completely breaking character and sitting in a normal position, but it soon occurs to him that Watari must be well aware that Ryuzaki is nothing more than a front. Light briefly wonders about L and Watari’s relationship, curious feelings of curiosity and slight jealousy growing within him.  
“Are you aware of why I have called you here tonight, Yagami-kun?” Watari again strikes up a conversation.  
“...Ryuzaki says you’re a doctor,” Light answers, digging through his foggy memories of this morning.  
“I would like for you to talk to me about how you have been feeling recently,” Watari says gently. “Although I would like you to know that I am not a psychiatrist. I worked as a mere general practitioner for several years in my younger days. Whilst I do not feel comfortable giving you a diagnosis, as I lack experience in the mental health field, I feel I may be able to offer some assistance and determine the best course of action.”  
“Can you help me with my memory loss?” Light questions, desperate to regain all he has lost.  
“I am afraid there is no cure for psychogenic amnesia. This affliction usually relieves itself given enough time and the right support. It is important that you have support, Yagami-kun. Who do you usually talk to about the problems you experience?”  
“Well, I…” Light has to think the answer to that question through, “I guess I talk to Ryuzaki about them sometimes.”  
“What about your family?” Watari queries. “Would you say that you are upfront about your problems with them?”  
“No,” Light admits, shaking his head.  
“Do you feel as though you can be upfront with them?”  
“Not really,” he confirms, starting to feel a little exposed.  
“Why not?”  
“I just don’t want to burden them.” With that sentence, he lowers his voice a little. Why is he admitting this?  
“You feel as though you burden others?” Watari questions, his voice still so soft.  
“I can,” Light breathes, gazing down at his wrung hands atop his lap.  
“Why do you feel that way, do you know? What is it that makes you feel as though you are a burden?” Watari senses that Light is getting uncomfortable.  
“Why does it matter?” Light asks, echoing the abasing voice in his head. It’s been getting louder ever since he entered this room.  
“I only wish to help you, Yagami-kun,” Watari states, sedulous. “I can only help you if you cooperate with me. It is healthy to talk about your feelings and the problems you are facing.”  
“I don’t need any help,” Light hisses in response, throwing his walls up once more. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m normal.”

Watari remains quiet for a little while, imbibing. He ruminates over how similar Light is to his father, and over how sad it is that this boy has little to no familial or social support.

“I have never once implied that you are abnormal,” he says, at last.  
“In that case, I don’t need help.” Light starts to fidget, twiddling his thumbs.  
“You want help with your amnesia, do you not?”  
“W-well, obviously.” He pouts and shifts his weight slightly, unaware of how he’s just acquired L’s lecherous, leering gaze.  
“If that is the case, you are going to have to talk about that which I believe to have caused your amnesia,” Watari announces, with a little more force this time.  
“Which is?” Light looks up and into Watari’s grey eyes again, hopeful.  
“Severe stress.”  
“That can’t be the cause.” Light shakes his head. “Can that happen?”  
“It can be common in those who undergo traumatic experiences.”

Light catches L and Watari meeting eyes. They hold eye contact only for a second before the older man looks back at Light.

“My understanding is that it is a defence mechanism,” Watari continues. “It is what the brain does when it simply cannot cope. In many cases, especially those involving severe trauma, the memories remain forever buried in the subconscious. But do not let that knowledge discourage you, Yagami-kun. I am quite certain that your amnesia will resolve itself in due course if those around you give you the correct support. If I wish to support you through this, which I do, I need you to cooperate with me, alright?”  
“...Alright,” Light replies hesitantly.  
“I will need you to cooperate with me too, Ryuzaki.”  
“Of course,” L says calmly.  
“Alright.” Watari nods. “This morning, Ryuzaki relayed to me that you seemed to be unaware of the visit you paid me the other week. Is this accurate?”  
“Yes,” Light affirms with a nod. “But,” he adds, “as soon as I walked into this room tonight I knew I recognised it, despite not remembering coming in here before. Déjà vu, I guess.”  
“I see. Tell me, are you familiar with the term ‘panic attack’?”

Those two words echo through Light’s head, making him feel a little dizzy. He’s vaguely familiar with the term; he knows it’s something that occurs in those with anxiety disorders. He’s heard those words before. And he’s definitely heard them coming from L’s mouth.

“...'Attack'?” Light repeats, his voice quivering. His feelings of unease seem to have rapidly accelerated.  
“When you were in this room last, I was treating your panic attack.”  
“My…”

Light doesn’t notice himself trailing off. He had an _attack_? And, from what he was told this morning, his father was there? He had a panic attack in front of his father and L? Oh, he must have looked so feeble! No wonder his father is angry with him and constantly on his case, he must think he gave life to a complete lunatic! Oh, he thinks himself such a disappointment, such a _failure! You’re such a contemptible, meagre little gnat, so-_

“Light?”  
The pale hand on his left shoulder startles the teenager. He gasps, then feverishly studies his surroundings, holding the breath in. When he realises he’s safe, he lets the breath go. He must have checked out again.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Yeah,” Light breathily replies to L. “Um, what were you saying?” he addresses Watari.  
“You were brought to me in tears by Ryuzaki and your father because you were utterly convinced that you were having a heart attack,” Watari divulges, observing Light’s features distort in perturbation. “As I told you this morning, I ascertained, by drawing and analysing your blood, that it was not a heart attack, and made a tentative diagnosis of heartburn. Now, to reiterate, your blood sample evinced electrolyte imbalances, disturbances to your metabolism, and multiple vitamin deficiencies. Are you following?”  
“Yes, I’m following,” Light says without hesitation, despite looking completely lost.  
“Your deficiencies I can help with.” The older man reaches into his jacket and retrieves three cylindrical plastic bottles from his pocket. “I took the liberty of acquiring the vitamins you require most.”

Light eyes up the bottles Watari is holding out, two in one hand and one in the other. They’re clearly labelled as vitamins, unlike the pill L gave him earlier.  
“Ryuzaki has already given me a vitamin,” he states, befuddled by this new information.

Watari shows an expression Light has never seen on his face before, the emotion behind this expression is one he can’t decipher, as he looks at L. Light, too, takes a glance at his companion. L, sitting with his elbow against the armrest and his cheek against his knuckles, looks to be smiling at his handler. Light hasn’t ever seen L smile like that before; it’s not his usual smirk, it’s…

There’s something calculated behind it, something scheming. Light gets the feeling he’s not privy to something L and Watari are.

“Yes, well,” Watari continues, breaking eye contact with L, “you are deficient in several. I did not wish to overwhelm you, and so have supplied you only with those I believe to be the most necessary.”  
“Alright.” Light nods, then reaches out and takes the small bottles into his hold.  
“These three, you are to take once a day and on a full stomach.”  
“And the other ones are twice a day?”  
“Twice a day under the same circumstances, indeed.”

Something isn’t adding up for Light. But who is he to question a doctor? It is not his place to dispute a professional’s diagnosis. It is not his place to defy authority.

“Yagami-kun?”  
“Yes?” Light looks up from the bottles in his hands.  
“Would you mind elaborating further about the physical symptoms you experience?”  
“Huh?”  
“You told me this morning that you feel lightheaded at times. Is that often?”  
“Every day, I guess.” He shrugs nervously. This is invasive.  
“Before today, had you ever fainted as a result of this lightheadedness?”  
“...Once.”  
“When was this?” Watari keeps pushing for answers. “If you do not mind telling me,” he adds, trying to let Light know that he does not have to talk if he does not wish to.  
“Last year.” Light clutches one of the bottles tighter, resisting the urge to pop it open and start toying with the lid purely to have something to do with his hands, to have something to distract him from this.  
“Okay. How did that make you feel? I imagine you were frightened.”

Light shakes his head. The only thing he felt frightened of was the possibility that after witnessing him faint whilst they were home alone, Sayu would run her mouth and tell their parents. Luckily, with much strenuous effort, he convinced her to stay silent about the ordeal.

“Why did you not feel frightened?” Watari continues to catechise.  
“...What does this have to do with my amnesia?” Light questions back, growing increasingly restless with each passing second.  
“I do apologise, are you uncomfortable answering these questions? I only wish to understand your thought processes better so that I may aid you in your recovery.”  
“My…?”

The teenager’s eyes suddenly light up. Not with rapture, but with rage.

“You’ve told him, haven’t you?” he all of a sudden growls, addressing L, as his grip on the bottles only grows tighter.  
“What do you mean?” L plays innocent and feigns ignorance, pouting like a child.  
“Why have you told him‽” Light raises his voice.  
L chooses not to reply, instead silently calculating the likelihood of this scenario escalating. L’s silence further infuriates Light, who throws the vitamins down onto the settee as he stands up on the spur of the moment.  
“You promised not to tell!” he very nearly shouts, making L’s eyes widen and knocking that innocuous expression off his face.  
“Calm down, Light. I haven’t told anyone anything.” L sounds more serious this time; he takes his hand away from his cheek as he prepares to defend himself from any potential attack. Light is unpredictable when angered and fierce when he perceives a threat.

Watari observes from his seat and is quick to act when Light so much as slightly raises his right arm. In a matter of mere seconds, the older man rushes forward, skilfully dodges the coffee table, and grabs Light by the wrists before he has the chance to strike L. However, by this point, L has scuttered away as far as the chain allows him to.

Watari thinks he catches sight of genuine fear in L’s dark eyes. L’s steadily increasing breathing rate has most certainly caught his ear.

It’s not that L feels threatened by this boy, no, he knows this child can do no real harm, not in his weakened state. It’s just that L is far too familiar with scenarios like these, ones in which someone is standing above him and shouting at him, and he’s so desperately trying to shield himself from their...

Oh, no. Bad memories. L tells himself that he has to stay in control and has to slow his breathing. Bothersome emotions, bothersome memories. That was a long time ago.

“Yagami-kun, is it necessary to resort to violence?” Watari’s voice is almost as firm as his grip.  
“How much has he told you‽” Light struggles against the man’s hold, trying to pry himself away.  
“I haven’t told him a thing,” L restates, spitting his words. “Perhaps if you were in the habit of listening instead of lashing out, you’d know that.”  
“L, please, keep your temper,” Watari warns, switching to English.  
“What!?” L snaps likewise. “You expect me to keep my temper when this kid’s just tried to hit me? For the second time, might I add?”  
“Be gentle and be patient. His memory is impaired, and he is unstable.”  
“Still, he has no right to-”  
“Let me go!” Light cuts L off mid-sentence, drawing all eyes to himself.  
“Yagami-kun, I beseech you, please calm yourself down and allow us to explain.” Watari sounds more desperate now, though his iron grip has not loosened.  
“You don’t need to explain. I understand what’s going on.” Light sounds to be on the verge of tears as he fruitlessly struggles against that grip. “You promised not to tell anyone!” he again yells at L.  
“Believe me, Light, I haven’t,” following Watari’s lead, L switches back to Japanese. “I don’t break my promises, unlike you,” he retorts from a distance, snarling his sentence.  
“You must have told him!” Light shouts. For a split second, he thinks he sees L wince.  
“There is no need for all this animosity!” Watari weighs in once more, ever so slightly raising his voice to attract attention. “There has been a misunderstanding. We need to sit down and talk this through.”  
“I think it’d be better if we two retired for the night,” L replies, louring.

Watari is long since familiar with that contemptuous glare. There is absolutely no way in hell he’s letting those two leave when L is this vexed. Light, per contra, seems to have simmered down slightly, his irritated expression is now one of confusion, and he has stopped struggling.

“I want to clear things up first. Can I trust you enough to let go, Yagami-kun?”  
“...Yes,” Light whispers after about five seconds pass.  
Cautiously, Watari loosens his grip, setting the boy free once more. He fully expects him to rush forward and make one more attempt at hitting L, but Light defies his expectations, instead silently staring into L’s eyes with a blank expression. L’s expression is much the same - if one was not familiar with the man, they’d see it as stony and unaffected. Though, Watari, as the person perhaps most familiar with L, can see the fury behind his eyes as clear as day. Seeing L become truly incandescent used to be an exceptionally rare occurrence. Yet, that changed once he started working on the Kira case. Watari has never seen L so determined, so relentless, so capricious, and so _cruel_. When he watches the recent security footage over, he can hardly recognise the boy he took in all those years ago, the boy he thinks of as the son he never had. This case has changed that boy for the worse. Watari has witnessed L’s morally dubious manipulative tactics before, has overseen every single case in which he has met his suspect face to face, and he has never once seen him resort to such cut-throat measures.

That boy has always been vengeful.

It is saddening, how that boy still holds that person so close to his heart. It is saddening, how he still mirrors that person to this very day.

“Save yourself the trouble,” L jeers. “We will take our leave now.”  
L takes a section of the chain into his right hand and begins to walk off with Light in tow.  
“L, please,” Watari begins in his mother tongue, "I know that you are upset, but you need not take it out on him. Just look at him, please. Look at him and realise that he needs urgent help.” He grabs L’s right upper arm to stop him as he walks by.  
“You’re wasting your time, Tari.” L doesn’t bother switching languages this time, no longer caring if Light understands or not. “He doesn’t want help.”  
“Yagami-kun?”

Light is unresponsive once more. He stares at the ground below him, embellished eyes glassy and marred mouth slightly agape.

Watari releases L’s arm. Surprisingly, L stays put, making no further attempt to flee.  
“Yagami-kun?” the oldest of the trio repeats, placing a hand on the teenager's shoulder.  
Nothing. Light seems utterly unaware of everything around him. He is so very still.  
“Let me,” L suggests.  
After a little consideration, Watari nods and removes his hand from that shoulder. L immediately steps in with his charming chicanery, so softly using the tips of two fingers to lift Light’s chin. This emotive yet straightforward gesture pulls Light back into actuality; he feels his mouth closing as he meets L’s eyes.  
“Dear?” L calls out in one of the most overly-sentimental, sickly-sweet tones Watari has ever heard him affect.  
Light comprehends this word, yet he still isn’t entirely with it. He is having trouble remembering how he got to be here, a good few paces from where he was last. He was standing right in front of the settee mere seconds ago, Watari had just set him free after he…

Oh, no, why did he do that‽

_You’re a horrible excuse for a human, attacking Ryuzaki like that! Have you no self-control?_

“Are you alright?” L’s smooth, dulcet voice drowns out the screaming in Light’s head, if only for a second.  
“Yeah,” Light whispers, nodding as he disconcertedly looks around, just to assure himself it’s only in his head. “I’m fine.”  
“You need rest,” L states, softening his tone even more, to the point where Watari is almost wincing at the mawkish sound. “We should leave.”  
“I think it would be better if you stayed,” Watari objects. “Yagami-kun and I still have much to talk about, and there is a misunderstanding that we need to clear up.”  
“I can handle things, worry not,” L assures his father-figure with a fake smile, desperately trying to refrain from gritting his teeth behind his curled lips. “You’re tired, Light.” He changes his smile to a mocking, patronising frown.  
“I...I am,” Light agrees. The words don’t feel like his. Why did he just lie? He’s not feeling tired right now. He’s not feeling anything right now. Why won’t _it_ stop shouting at him?  
“Please, Yagami-kun, stay for just a short while longer?” Watari all but begs, afraid of what L is going to do to this boy when he gets him alone. “I think it would be beneficial if you talked about what is upsetting you.”  
“I-”  
“Really, Light, we must go,” L interrupts, not allowing Light to speak for himself. “I can tell you’re tired. Remember what Aizawa-san said this morning? You should get more rest.”  
Spiritless and servile, Light bows his head in submission. After that boutade of his, he’s ready to endure whichever punishment L sees fit.  
“Yes,” he mumbles, his voice muted.  
“Thank you for your concern, Watari,” L says calmly as he again grabs a portion of the chain with his right hand and once more begins to lead Light astray. “I will take things from here.”

L’s words and actions leave a sour taste in Watari’s mouth. He does not like the idea of an angry L alone with an anguished Light, not one bit, though he knows he cannot distress Light any further by keeping him here against his will, for that could be detrimental to his psyche. Then again, letting L continue to mistreat him will be equally detrimental.

He feels stuck. He knows that Light is so, so fragile that the even the slightest mishap could push him over the edge. If he keeps him here and tries to force him to talk, that may be too much for him to handle, but the same is true if he lets L have his way.

Light has feelings for L. That much became evident a long time ago. As such, he must surely trust the detective at present, at least more than he trusts Watari. That kid can handle a lot if it comes from L directly. He has already withstood so much torment.

“Yagami-kun?” the doctor calls out, just as L is grabbing the door handle.  
Light looks behind and catches sight of Watari drawing nearer.  
“Your vitamins.”  
“Thank you,” Light all but whispers, turning around to take those bottles into his hold.  
“Let me carry them,” L buts in, quickly taking them out of his attendant’s hands before Light gets the chance, then slipping them into his large jean pockets.  
“I will be watching you,” Watari states in English, letting L know that he is not at all happy and will not hesitate to step in if needed.  
“Well, of course, you will,” L replies flippantly, also in English. “Now, excuse us.”

Watari takes a step back and watches silently as the pair take their leave. As soon as that door closes, he is rushing towards his desk chair and wheeling it back towards his desk. He has no time to lock the door behind those two; he absolutely must make sure that their interactions don’t become physically violent.

He has no idea what L is capable of anymore. His sweet little boy has grown up into a complete stranger.

As he walks down the hallway, Light can sense L skulking behind him, simply lying in wait until they’re safely inside their quarters. He can tell he’s made L angry, and that knowledge instils within him the most racking feelings of shame and unease. Though he knows full well he deserves an upbraiding since it’s his fault for losing his head like he always seems to, he cannot help feeling utterly terrified of whatever is to come to pass. He knows his past punishments have been light, they’ve all been of much lower severity than he feels he deserves, and he puts that down to L being such a lenient, forgiving person. But with all these missing memories, the possibility that he cannot fully remember the more severe reprimands he’s received cannot be discounted.

An agonising pain searing through his collarbone, horrific feelings of guilt and inadequacy, salty and metallic freshly-drawn blood spreading throughout his mouth and assailing his tastebuds…

No matter how hard he tries, he cannot seem to recall anything more about how he was punished. Only the horrendous pain, those vile emotions, that repugnant taste, and the knowledge that his long-preserved purity has in some way been purloined.

_You’ve been poisoned, sullied by that roué. You’re never going to regain what he has stolen from you. Actually, is it really stealing if you wanted it?_

_Shut up_, Light dares to respond to the derision. He wishes it would stop constantly finding fault with every little thing.

_See, that’s the problem, Light. You are one massive flaw, the word ‘fault’ might as well be written on your forehead._

Light keeps his poise and takes this internal abuse, awaiting anxiously as L unlocks the door to their quarters. He bides his time as he observes the detective walk into the room and turn on the light. With shallow breaths, he slowly and hesitantly follows, feeling like he might genuinely be sick. He doesn’t know what to expect.

Nothing seems amiss as L locks the door behind them. In fact, he looks quite calm. Immediately after returning the key to his pocket, however, L grabs a fistful of Light’s jumper and pulls him nearer. Light whimpers, barely able to understand what’s happening as he’s shoved against the wall next to the door. He cries out once more as his head hits the hard plasterboard, his eyes wide.  
“You little _brat_!” L sneers, leaning in far too close.  
Another hushed, half-subdued whimper passes Light’s lips. He can see the fury in L’s features now, petrifying and pellucid. How tight L’s grip on his jumper is unnerves him further, for this man is quite clearly a good deal stronger than him.  
“Don’t look at me like that,” L commands abrasively.  
“Like what?” Light mutters shakily.  
“Like you’re some innocent child who hasn’t a clue why I’m doing this!”

Light flinches as L raises his voice. He has to remind himself that he deserves this.

“What you just did is completely unacceptable. Do you understand me, Light?”  
“Yes,” Light replies in a near-whisper.  
“I put my complete trust in you, and what do you go ahead and do? You betray it. Again. If not for Watari, you would’ve _hit_ me,” L spits the word ‘hit’. “I never thought you’d stoop that low again, Light, not after our last fight. It’s as if you’re begging me to punish you.”  
“Please,” Light swallows and blinks back the tears brimming his eyes, “can you _please_ be lenient?”  
“You think leniency is an option?” L asks mockingly. “After you’ve just attempted to physically abuse me?”  
“I...I lost control. Please, forgive me!”  
“That’s no excuse. And your pathetic grovelling isn’t going to fix this.”

_Pathetic_. That word burrows under Light’s thinned skin and stings like a nettle. L, his idol, thinks him pathetic!

“Oh, don’t start crying,” the detective jibes with a mirthless curl of the lip. “This is your own doing.”  
“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t told him!” Light retaliates, trying his hardest to prevent the tears that are blurring his vision from flowing.  
“I haven’t told him anything!”  
“Then how does he know‽” he almost shouts as he dries his eyes with a sleeve.  
“Are you serious?” L snickers at the sight, overcome with outrage. “It’s not like it was particularly difficult for him to figure out when you kept leaving abrasions on your knuckles.”  
“They could have been from anything!”  
“Oh, please, Light, he’s not stupid! Do you not think he’s had patients like you before?”  
“I’m not a patient!” Light asserts, barely able to hold himself together. “I’ve told you all before that there’s nothing wrong with me.”

Silence fills the room.

L looks contemplative, like he’s trying to figure something out.

Light anticipates the crux of this feud in terror, regretting every single word that’s ever left his mouth and every single action he’s ever carried out. His heart hammers, worsening that woozy feeling.

At last, L lets go of Light’s jumper and takes a step backwards. Light is frozen in fear.

“I just can’t understand you,” L admits, in a lot less aggressive tone. He looks perplexed by the boy before him.

With the adrenaline rush gradually fleeing his system, L knows he must act before he has a chance to regret his decision. Expeditiously, he grabs Light by the wrist and leads him forward. Light lets it happen, his gaze fixated on the beige carpet as L stops to unlock the door to their bedroom. As the sitting room is engulfed in darkness, the bedroom is bathed in artificial light.

Again, nothing seems amiss.

L locks the door behind them then leads Light a few more paces forward. The sound of a key undoing the cuffs catches Light’s ear.

But it’s not his cuff that’s being undone.

Light only just pieces together what’s happening as L drags him towards the bed, with his own empty cuff dangling from the part of the chain he has in hand. The younger of the two hasn’t even time to think about resisting before he’s shoved onto the duvet. Terror seizes him once more, and his breathing accelerates as L straddles him.  
“Ryuzaki!” Light lets out, squirming as he’s cuffed to the wooden bedpost.  
“Don’t fight it,” L demands, wrapping the length of the chain around Light’s forearms.  
“Please, not this, I’m not r-”  
“Haven’t I already told you that grovelling and begging aren’t going to work tonight?” L interrupts his panic-stricken companion most malapertly.  
“Ryuzaki, please, I don’t want this yet!” Light protests, hyperventilating.  
“I’m not going to violate you,” L assures as the other cuff clasps Light’s right wrist. “There,” he says, sounding strangely chipper as he locks the cuffs in place once more, “job done.”  
“What?” a bemused, terrified Light whimpers.  
“Learn to keep your hands to yourself,” L says without even a semblance of geniality.  
“You can’t expect me to sleep like this?” Light briefly struggles against his restraints. He stops when he realises that there’s no way he’s escaping them.  
“I do, in fact.”  
“But I’m clothed!”  
“So? I sleep clothed.”  
“I have my makeup on, and I haven’t even brushed my teeth or anything, I-”  
“Will you stop complaining!?” L interrupts again. “You brought this upon yourself.”

Light keeps quiet but for his heavy breathing and admits defeat, ignoring the pain as the restraints dig into his flesh. This is all his fault.

When L realises he won’t get any further reaction, he reaches up to switch the light off then dismounts the boy below him. Light is reactionless still, staring off to the side as L leaves him alone and walks into the bathroom to do his teeth. He leaves the door open so he may keep an eye on that boy. The rage within him dulls, only to be replaced with loathsome remorse, which he vows to disregard.

Light’s own feelings of dread are steadily replaced by an almost comforting numbness. He can sense his thoughts slipping away. These cuffs are much too tight, he realises. They’re going to leave marks, despite the cushioning provided by the sleeves of his black, woollen jumper.

Come morning, he’ll make sure to wear long sleeves again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watari's actions may seem a little rash here, I know, but, rest assured, all shall be revealed within the next few chapters.


	17. Chapter 17

Light stares at the marks on his bare wrists and forearms in perturbation.

Beads of scalding water from the showerhead above cascade onto the little concavities in his skin, though the only things they wash away are the minuscule flecks of blood besmirching the skin around his carpus. Those shackles were attached way too tightly last night. The angry rose-coloured lines that decorate both of his wrists like bracelets are sore to the touch. The chainlink pattern on his forearms is faint and painless but for a bruised section on the exposed skin nearest his wrists. Also on his forearm, he espies more bruises - _old_ bruises - yellowish marks in the shape of...fingertips?

These are going to be tough to keep out of sight. He’s going to have to be very, very careful not to let his sleeves slip up, for he doesn’t want anyone, especially not his father, to form any indecorous ideas. He and L aren’t like that.

At least, not yet.

Light trusts L when he says they’ve never consummated their...relationship? Is that the correct word? He doesn’t know, for his memories are still so displaced and incomplete. However, he doesn’t think he’d be opposed to that sort of a relationship with L, who always treats him with such overwhelming kindness and magnanimity, providing he’s been good. So many times has Light vowed to be good and to never misbehave again, only for his negative emotions to get in the way and ruin everything. Those silly emotions are the reason he has these unlovely marks marring his otherwise flawless skin.

Sighing deeply, he wonders why he always has to mess everything up.

Everything would be perfect if he got rid of these disgusting feelings. L wouldn’t reprove him, and they could both be happy. For Light, true happiness is a distant memory. He can’t remember when exactly this lingering melancholy perforated and drilled itself into his head. Many moons ago, surely. More than any other feeling, he wants to destroy that one, which has plagued him for years on end. Before this assuaging numbness took over not long ago, it was his default state of mind. He much prefers this new lack of feeling to the debilitating waves of emotions he constantly felt before.

The only downside is the memory loss.

Severe stress, Watari had said. How ridiculous, Light thinks, for that must certainly be impossible. Yes, he _is_ stressed, naturally, for he’s suspected of mass murder and everything he says could further incriminate him, but it’s not that bad, is it? Things could be worse. L is starting to realise he’s entirely innocent, right? His percentage must be going down; they’ve spent a month together, so his innocence should be proven. What was he at last? 7%? Oh, that was a long time ago, though. Perhaps he should ask again, just to be sure.

He wishes he wasn’t in this situation. Above all, he hates living under constant suspicion, having his every move picked apart and his every word carefully analysed. But, he likes spending time with L.

He _likes_ L, in a way that’s more than friendly. That much, he is certain of.

Oh, he just wants to remember all the time they’ve spent together! Not knowing is the worst part of this. He can never be sure of anything. He’s just got to take L’s word. Fortunately, L doesn’t lie to him.

The disarranged memories are especially troubling. He could’ve sworn that L physically attacked him during one of the first few nights they spent together, but L swears otherwise, and he believes L, for what would L gain from feeding him lies?

This is all so very distressing. Things he’s being told aren’t adding up with what he’s recalling. 

He can’t even trust his own memory anymore.

Truly, he fears he may be going mad.

Yagami Light, the soon-to-be perfect son of the revered Chief of the NPA, going _mad_? Losing his memories? The thought alone makes Light feel rotten, and it makes his blood run cold! He simply cannot allow himself to descend into insanity; he absolutely must keep control and be the composed, clear-headed son his father wants. If he does lose the plot, he’ll be even more of a burden to L than he already is, and that’s the last thing he wants. He can’t put L through that.

It’s no wonder everyone gets frustrated with him when he’s so unstable.

If only he could thwart his undesired emotions…

“Light?”  
L’s muffled voice brings Light back into reality, making him jump. For a moment, he has to look around and ascertain that he is safe, having felt so separate from all that surrounds him.  
“Yeah?” he replies once he figures out the situation.  
“Are you alright? You’ve been a while,” L remarks from the other side of the bathroom door.  
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Light assures.  
L seems satisfied with this answer and doesn’t respond. Light sighs once more, taking one last glance at the injured arms still held out in front of him. The heat has smeared a salmon-coloured hue across them, and his fingertips are starting to resemble raisins…

He really has been in here a while. He could’ve sworn he’s only been, what, ten or fifteen minutes?

Oh, well. It matters not. He’s got everything he needed to do done and is clean now, at least. He lets his left arm go limp, using his right to reach out and turn the shower off.

Deathly silence deafens the room. Light knows he should be finding this unnerving, as he normally does, but…

He feels absolutely nothing. He thinks about absolutely nothing, for God knows how long.

And then, a singular bead of water drips from the showerhead. The faint sound reminds Light of what he’s supposed to be doing. With asthenic and half-conscious movements, he draws back the shower curtain and steps out onto the bath mat. Careful not to drench his neatly-folded, fresh clothes, he reaches for a towel. He drapes it over his shoulders and envelopes his shaking body within the soft cotton, basking in the warmth provided. Like this, he remains for a good half-minute, feeling comforted and secure. He then lets outs another disheartened sigh, knowing he has to start getting ready for the day.

It takes him longer than usual to dry himself off. He finds it harder to make fluid movements, harder to make any movements, for that matter, and keeps losing concentration and zoning out. Eventually, though, he manages, turn prepares to tackle the next task - namely, dressing himself. For today, he has picked out his baggiest jumper, a navy blue one, which he’s sure will conceal his sores. Unfortunately, the neckline is much too low to hide his love bites, though they shouldn’t be difficult to cover with makeup since they’ve faded to yellowish-grey blemishes. He still can’t remember exactly when he was given these.

“Li~ght?” L calls out once more.  
“What?” Light responds, his voice coming out quieter than he would like it to.  
“Are you sure you’re alright in there?” L asks again, having only just heard Light’s hushed answer.  
“I’m fine,” Light says flatly and dishonestly.  
“We’re nearing six forty,” L reveals.

Light gasps faintly. It’s that late already? They have to be at work at seven! He thought it was no later than six twenty-five. Oh, why does he keep losing track of time like this‽

“I’ll be five minutes,” he tells L.  
“Okay,” his elder replies, without even a hint of emotion in his voice.  
Light chooses not to continue the conversation, knowing he has to focus on getting ready; otherwise, he’s going to be late. He doesn’t want to show himself and L up like that, nor does he want to further disappoint his father and colleagues who must be looking down on him already. With those thoughts running through his mind, he takes a few delicate steps forward, with legs that feel heavier and stiffer with each passing second, and hangs his towel up to dry on the hook upon the door. Just as he’s reaching for his clean clothes, L’s voice catches his ear once more.  
“I don’t think you’re fine, Light,” L asserts, sounding more emotional this time.  
“I’m alright.” Light’s response is automatic and not thought through.  
“It’s okay to not be alright,” L says gently.  
“I know,” Light concedes as he slips on his underwear. “But I’m fine.”  
“...If you say so,” L says after five or so seconds of silence. He sounds defeated.

No words pass between the two for the next few minutes. Light pulls on his final item of clothing, his jumper, and feels victorious. Finally, he messes with his sleeves, pulling them down over his scarred knuckles, which is as far as they’ll reach. This jumper does a good job hiding both him and his wounds, he determines. Before leaving the room, he takes one last look at himself in the mirror. His reflection is clearer today. He’d almost forgotten about the cuts on his lip, and the bruise on his cheek. For a moment, he wonders why he’s suddenly so pale.

Regardless, he sees nothing that he can’t fix given time and a little makeup.

Speaking of time, he is cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he? Realising this, he snaps back into action and bundles last night’s clothes into his arms with haste, then makes his way over to the door as fast as he can and reaches out to unlock it. When he steps out, he immediately meets L’s gaze. They stand only a few paces apart.

L says nothing, instead choosing to simply observe the once-beautiful boy before him as he discards the clothes he slept in into the hamper beside him. Water drips down from Light’s freshly-washed yet darkened and disarrayed hair onto his bloodless skin. Once he’s put his clothes into the basket, he stands near-immobile as his eyes blankly stare into L’s, holding within them no emotion whatsoever.

Seeing Light in such a bad way is like a punch in the gut for L. He hadn’t expected things to turn out this way.

Slowly, Light holds out his left hand. L takes a deep breath, then peels back his younger’s sleeve so he can fit him with his cuff.

L’s eyes widen as soon as he catches sight of the ugly marks around Light’s wrist and forearm. The shame within him rises into his throat and fetches tears, which he quickly blinks away.

_What the fuck have I done?_, he asks himself, revolted by his own iniquities.

Wrestling with his conscience, L tries his hardest to put himself at rest as he fastens the cuff around Light’s wrist. He makes sure it’s a little loose to spare the boy any further discomfort, then retrieves the key from his pocket and locks the cuffs in place once more, having been already donning his own. In silence, Light tugs at his sleeve to cover up his wounds, then heads for his bedside cabinet.

He moves with leaden steps, merely dragging himself forward takes all his effort. L follows closely, daunted by Light’s lethargy and inertia.

Light fares alright when it comes to retrieving the hairdryer from inside the cabinet. As soon as he crouches down to plug it into the socket beside the bed, however, his actions seem to halt. At first, L thinks perhaps the boy is dizzy and trying to regain his equilibrium. But as the seconds pass and nothing seems to change, L grows more and more discomfited. With care, he brings himself down to Light’s level and gently places a hand upon his shoulder.  
“Light?”  
“Hm?” Light’s reply is barely audible. He blinks in confusion before turning his head slightly to gaze upon the detective behind him.  
“Plug the hairdryer in,” L encourages his younger with a certain warmth in his voice.  
“Oh,” Light says involuntarily as he remembers what he was doing.  
He heeds his elder’s order, securing the plug within the socket then flicking the switch on. Tentatively, he rises to his feet. The movement makes him feel lightheaded. L follows suit, standing up without issue. He watches attentively as Light brings a few fingertips to his forehead and leans against his hand as if he has a headache.  
“Feeling okay?” L inquires.  
“...I keep losing my train of thought,” Light reveals reluctantly.  
“Do you think you can manage?”  
“With what?”  
“Drying your hair.”  
“Yeah, I’ll be…” he hesitates. Will he really be fine?  
“If you can’t manage, I’ll take care of you,” L offers.  
“No, we’ll be late for work,” Light protests, dropping his arm to his side.  
“Don’t worry about that,” L dismisses his younger’s concerns. “The investigation is at a standstill, anyway.”  
“Oh,” is the only word that leaves Light’s cracked lips.

Silence again. An unnerving, tristful silence that gets under L’s skin and worsens that wretched little feeling of guilt.

His immediate thought is that he needs to distract himself, he needs to quell that emotion and bury it deep inside him...

Ah, but no. He cannot do that, not this time. It’s too strong.

He needs to make amends for this, he corrects himself. Light hasn’t the strength to care for himself anymore, and L knows that’s partially his fault. Thus, he takes another deep breath and composes himself once more.

“Come on,” he soothes as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, “sit down.”  
He beckons for Light, who has just taken notice of him, to sit in his lap.  
“Why?” the teenager questions, looking indecisive.  
“I’ll dry your hair for you.”  
“Oh,” he repeats, remembering what he’s supposed to be doing.  
“Come,” L says, beckoning again.  
With little thought, Light accedes and takes his seat. Soon, L’s arms are wrapped around his waist. Being so close to L makes Light’s heart skip a beat, and he feels _something_, but he can’t figure out what.  
“Are you sure you know how?” he asks, realising he has no memory of seeing L use a hairdryer.  
“My dear, I am not an alien,” L says with a low, lugubrious laugh as he takes the hairdryer from his younger’s hands. “Nor am I as incompetent as you seem to think I am when it comes to matters of vanity.”

Before turning it on and drowning out all other sound, he has a few things he needs to say. Things that need to be heard clearly.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, setting the hairdryer down beside him so he can hold Light with both arms.  
“Huh?” Light hasn’t a clue why L is apologising.  
“For all I’ve done to you.”  
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Light mutters.  
“No,” L corrects his confused younger. “This has gone too far. I shouldn’t have been so rough with you last night.”  
“My wounds will heal. I brought them upon myself, anyway. I acted up.”  
“No, they’re my doing. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry at you.”  
“I got angry first,” Light points out, thinking it matters.  
“Dear...” L begins, then trails off.  
“Hm?”  
“I think you should have another talk with Watari,” he continues, remembering what he’d been told over the phone after Light fell asleep last night. “He wants to help you feel better, that’s all. Can I set up another meeting?”  
“But-”  
“Please, Light, don’t refuse this offer. Neither of us want to have to resort to forcing you into treatment.”

Forced treatment was what Watari had brought up on the phone last night. He’d said that if Light’s illnesses progress any further, if he doesn’t respond to his meds, then forced treatment could become a very tempting option.

He’d also told L that ‘this mistreatment’ needs to stop. L had simply scoffed in response. Then Watari said he wouldn’t hesitate to intervene if L doesn’t cooperate with him when it comes to getting Light ‘the help he so desperately needs’.

Oh, and he’d told L to untie Light. L had lied and said the restraints weren’t at all tight. Watari had, perhaps foolishly, taken his word.

He is going to be beyond irate if he catches sight of Light’s arms. No doubt, he will, with access to the security feed. It’s times like these L is glad he is the only person with the keys to his own quarters. God knows Watari would have burst in and made a fuss last night had he been able to. That man has been far too patient for far too long.

“Please, don’t force me,” Light all but whimpers, with a faint and far-off feeling of dread appearing within.  
“We won’t,” L calms Light with an adulatory tone of voice, “providing you cooperate.”  
“What does that entail?” Light queries, shifting in L’s hold. “Cooperation, I mean.”  
“You have to talk,” L discloses. “You can’t keep bottling everything up.”  
“I...I don’t know if I can,” Light whispers, so uncertain of himself.  
“Do you want to feel better, Darling?” L adds the pet name for good measure.  
“Of course I do,” the younger of the two admits.  
“Then _talk_.”

Light mulls over his options for a short while. Though he wants to feel better, he doesn’t know if he has the courage to open up. He should be able to fix this himself, he thinks. He should be strong enough to deal with his own problems. Getting other people involved would only burden them.

“Please?” L adds, so hopeful.  
“I’m not worth the time,” Light mumbles, disheartened.  
“Don’t say that,” L breathes, holding his younger tighter. “I told Watari that too when I was around your age, you know. But he sat with me and simply listened for hours upon hours while I just vented. Not once did he tell me to stop. Believe me, Light, he’ll do anything to help.”  
“...Alright,” Light finally acquiesces, his voice shaking.  
“Thank you. Is tonight okay?”  
“I might be too tired.”

He’ll use any excuse to delay this.

“Then, tomorrow morning?”  
“Alright.”  
“I’ll let him know.”  
Out of sight, L briefly smiles. Baby steps. Without further ado, he again grabs the hairdryer. He turns it on and gets to work.

It doesn’t take him long to notice that the once-healthy brunet locks he holds between his supple digits are starting to thin.

After a good half-hour of L’s coaxing and two ignored phone calls from the chief, Light finally has himself made-up and looking presentable. He gazes upon his distorted image in the bathroom mirror and is relieved by the lack of obvious wounds he sees. Well, he can’t really cover up the ones on his lower lip. Time is the cure for those.  
“Right,” L speaks up, earning Light’s attention, “are you ready now?”  
“Yeah,” Light mutters, turning around to face his cajoling companion.  
“Do you feel up to breakfast today?” the detective asks as he reaches out to fix a displaced strand of Light’s hair.  
“No,” the teenager sighs in response, L’s affectionate gesture again imbuing inside him that intriguing, unidentifiable feeling.  
“Alright. You will have lunch within the coming hours, though.”  
“Okay.”  
“And you will take your vitamins.”  
“Fine.”  
“Good boy. Straight to work, then?”  
“Yeah.”  
“You don’t have to if you don’t feel up to it,” L says softly. “We can stay in our room or go up to the roof if you’d like.”  
“No,” Light shakes his head, “I’ve got to show up.”  
“You’re not well, though.” L’s unfeigned worry makes itself more than evident in both his voice and his features.  
“I’ll cope,” Light declares, as dismissive as ever.  
“Are you sure you can?” L inquires, hesitant to let Light work in his current state.  
“Of course,” Light blurts out without thought. “Let’s just go.”  
With that said, he takes his leave of the bathroom, moving surprisingly fast. L doesn’t reply, lagging behind until Light’s pace slows and he catches up. He then takes the lead, as usual, and retrieves the door key from his back pocket.

For a moment, he thinks twice. He has a bad feeling about today.

Quickly, he attributes that feeling to mere contrition and thinks nothing more of this grim presage.

“Ah! Morning Ryuzaki-san, Light-kun!” Matsuda, who is sat at the coffee table enjoying a plate of gyoza and a coffee, is the first to greet the pair as they descend the staircase into the main hall. “We were wondering where you were.”  
“Morning,” Light replies softly, in tones muted and timid.  
L simply nods, acknowledging Matsuda’s greeting.  
“Good morning,” Mogi, who sits opposite Matsuda, utters, looking up from the documents he’s reading through for only a fleeting second.  
“Morning,” Aizawa, who sits at his computer much like the chief beside him, says as he glances over his shoulder.  
“Good morning to you, too,” Light cordially responds.

The chief keeps quiet, typing away on his keyboard. It’s not like him to not greet his son in the morning.

Thinking this silence a little odd, Light, too, holds his tongue as he creeps over to his desk. He sits down and reaches out to turn his computer on, then looks to his left to observe L doing the same. Well, L assumes more of a crouch than a seated position.  
“Did you sleep well last night, Light-kun?” Matsuda asks, not moving from his seat halfway across the room.  
“I did, thank you,” Light answers jauntily, pretending to be in high spirits as he swivels his chair to face his friend.  
“Oh, I’m glad!” Matsuda almost yells, his voice a tad muffled as he speaks through a mouthful of gyoza. “I couldn't stop worrying about you yesterday.”  
“Must you be so loud, Matsuda?” Aizawa chides.  
“Ever so sorry,” Matsuda responds ruefully, a little quieter this time. “You’re feeling better today, right?”  
“Indeed I am,” Light lies, putting on a smile.  
“Is this really a conversation to be having during work hours?” L questions in a lacklustre voice.  
“He’s just asking if I feel alright, Ryuzaki.” Light’s false smile fades as he again swivels his chair, this time so he can face his monitor. “Is my friend not allowed to do that?”

L is just taking in a breath to reply when Souichirou finally speaks up.

“He’s right. Stop chit-chatting and get to work, Light,” the chief says coldly, not even bothering to look at his son.  
“...Alright.” The teenager immediately cooperates; his eyes dart towards his monitor in record pace.  
“You’re late.” Souichirou doesn’t give his son a chance to get to work before he’s again speaking to him.  
“Indeed,” Light says in an undertone, looking back at his father with unwary eyes.  
“Have you any good reason for that?” The chief meets his son’s gaze, his expression stony and stern.  
“Um, I just-”  
“Ryuzaki, perhaps you’d like to answer that question?” he cuts off his stuttering son snappishly.  
“...Is this any of your concern, Yagami-san?” L questions back, his voice low and somewhat admonitory.

Souichirou takes a deep breath, then replies with:

“I just don’t think Light’s taking this seriously.”

This sentence attracts all eyes.

“Don’t say that, Chief,” Aizawa cautions, furrowing his brow as he lowers his mug of coffee onto the coaster beside his keyboard. “Of course he’s taking this seriously, we all are.”  
“I’ve had a look at your files and gone through your recent work, Light,” Souichirou reveals, insidiously inflexible.  
“Oh, really?” Light questions guilelessly. His father’s authoritarian tone instils uneasiness.  
“To me, it looks like you’re not trying hard enough,” the chief opines.

The uneasiness mutates into full-fledged anxiety. It bubbles within him and makes him tense up, threatening to boil over at any minute.

“Light-kun has been ill,” L quickly comes to his younger’s defence.  
“I understand that he’s been under the weather, Ryuzaki,” Souichirou acknowledges, “but that’s no excuse. Recently, he’s had days when he’s contributed practically nothing. I could forgive it if it were a one-off incident, but it’s almost every day now.”  
“Tou-san, I…” Light trails off, unable to conjure a believable defence.  
“This isn’t good enough, Light. You can’t just sit and daydream for hours on end; there’s a mass murderer on the loose.”

Those words make Light’s heart drop. He feels as though he’s about to choke up, but keeps his outward composure.

_You’re not good enough_, that demeaning voice snickers.

_I’m not good enough_, Light confirms.

“I am quite certain that Light-kun is not daydreaming,” L begins, Souichirou’s words enkindling the incipient inferno of ire inside him. “And, I assure you, he is taking this very seriously. In fact, perhaps more seriously than any of us. He is my prime suspect, after all.”  
“Exactly,” Aizawa pipes up again, “Light-kun has to live under constant scrutiny. That would stress anyone out, but especially someone as young as he is.”  
“It’s more than stress,” Souichirou sighs. “Do you think you’re fit to work right now, Light?”  
“Of course, I am!” Light defensively snaps back.  
“Don’t raise your voice towards me,” the chief warns, glaring at his son.  
“Forgive me, Tou-san. I didn’t mean to,” Light says contritely, wringing his hands in his lap.  
“Don’t be so harsh, Chief!” Matsuda says suddenly as he walks up to the panel. “It’s as Ryuzaki-san says, Light-kun has been unwell,” he defends the friend he’s now stood next to.  
“Whatever ails him, it’s no excuse for this level of flippancy,” the chief retorts.  
“I’m not being flippant!” Light declares, sounding every bit as upset as he feels. “I’m trying my best, but-”  
“There’s no buts about it, Light!” the chief interjects. “Stop making excuses and pull yourself together.”  
“I’m _trying_,” Light almost whines as he holds back tears.  
“Don’t get upset; we know you’re trying.” Matsuda attempts to sound reassuring.  
“Clearly, you’re not trying hard enough,” the chief counters.

L grips his desk with blanched knuckles as he fights to stay in character.

_How dare he?_, he thinks to himself, with the flames of fury ardent within.

“I’m doing my best!” Light yells. “What more can I do?”  
“If you’re not fit to work, you need to tell us right now,” Souichirou orders. Those peremptory words cut right through his son's supports.  
“Of course I’m fit to work, there’s nothing wrong with me.”  
“Nothing wrong with you?” he scoffs.  
“Nothing!” Light proclaims.  
“Son, I’m not a fool!”  
“I know.” He bites his tongue in order to delay the encroaching paroxysm. “I never said you were.”  
“Then why are you treating me like one?” his father queries brusquely.  
“In all my time working with him, I have only ever observed Light-kun treating his father with nothing but the utmost adoration and respect,” L snaps, unable to conceal the wrath in his voice.  
“That’s right!” Matsuda asserts, his eyes wide with an indiscernible emotion. “He's never had anything bad to say about you, Chief.”  
“He looks up to you, Yagami-san,” L declares, softening his irascible tone a little. “Is this a good example to set for your son?”  
“As I say, justice comes before family,” Souichirou laments in sheer frustration. “And justice isn’t going to be served as quickly as we’d like it to be if my son keeps impeding this investigation.”

L bites back his words, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. The urge to make this physical is strong; he’s holding himself back using every last soupçon of restraint he possesses. He wants nothing more than to break character and lead the already susceptible Light away from this abuse. He wants nothing more than to protect what is _his_, for the poor boy has been through enough already.

“That’s not true,” Aizawa states, flabbergasted by the chief’s cruelty. “He’s not impeding anything; he’s one of our most valuable members.”  
“That was once the case, yes,” Souichirou confirms. “Indeed, Light, you were once on par with Ryuzaki. But you’ve stopped caring, haven’t you?”  
“Are you kicking me out of the Task Force?” his son asks, swallowing back tears, his voice trembling.  
“I’m proposing that, at the very least, you take a bit of a break. When you return to work, I expect you to have sorted yourself out.”  
“Tou-san, please, I’m perfectly capable of working!”  
“Not anymore, my son.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with me!”  
“Don’t lie to me!”  
“I’m not lying. I’m fine!”  
“You’re anorexic, Light!”

What little colour Light has left drains from his face. He freezes in place. The room goes quiet as everyone processes those words. _What_?

“Tha-” Matsuda stutters, breaking the silence, “that’s not true, is it, Light-kun?”

The man’s voice is tremulous and hesitant. He’d had his suspicions, what with Light looking so underfed, yet he’d attributed that to the obvious depression messing with his friend’s appetite. But, no, he hadn’t expected _this_ to be the problem.

“What?” Light responds, barely audible. “Of course not, I’m not-”

A choked, guttural sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper cuts him off. He subdues the unbidden noise, throwing his hand over his mouth, tightly gripping his sleeve with his fingertips, so it doesn’t slip and reveal his injuries.

Everyone knows.

They’re all going to mock him, and then he’s going to be tossed into the loony bin.

He’s an _embarrassment_.

No doubt, his mother and his little sister are going to be told, too. How is he going to make them understand that he’s doing this for them? That all he wants is to be perfect and ethereal? That all he wants is for people to finally be genuinely proud of him? No matter how hard he tries, they’ll only hear the crazed ravings of a madman! At best, they’ll view him as an overly ambitious control freak!

He needs to leave before these tears start spilling.

“Excuse me,” he chokes out, his words slightly muffled by the wool over his lips as he hastily stands up.  
“Light-kun!” Matsuda stops the teenager with a grip on his wrist.

For a second, Light winces as though he’s in pain.

“Talk to us,” Matsuda offers, on the verge of tears himself.  
“I need to go,” Light says shakily as he takes his hand away from his mouth to pry Matsuda’s away from his wounded wrist.  
With that, he takes off again. Dragged by the chain, L nearly loses his footing as he’s forced to stand up from his chair.  
“Ryuzaki-san, please!” Matsuda interferes again, this time wrapping a hand around L’s wrist.  
L simply brings a hand to his colleague’s and loosens the grip, saying only one thing as he sets himself free:  
“Let us go.”

The unforeseen apologetic look in L’s eyes tells the onlookers everything they need to know. If L is getting emotional, this is serious.

Everyone watches Light rush off towards the staircase with L in pursuit, too astounded to act any further.

“Light-kun?” L mutters, trying to catch up with the boy in front of him.  
“We need to go,” Light insists, so quietly that only L and Mogi are close enough to hear those words.

Reality sinks in for Aizawa as he witnesses the shackled pair ascending the staircase. He speedily rises to his feet, donning a calm visage to mask his inner vexation.  
“I’m leaving, too,” he asserts.  
“Eh?” Matsuda blurts out.  
“You’re not going anywhere,” the chief says as he, too, stands.  
“Chief…” Aizawa begins, trailing off as he takes a little while to think up a way to say what he wants to whilst retaining his professionalism.  
“I’m not losing another one of my men, not after that ordeal,” Souichirou mutters indignantly, chagrined by his son’s procacity.  
“I say this to you not as a detective to his chief, but as one father to another,” Aizawa utters after taking a breath, trying to keep his cool, “what you just did was disgraceful.”  
“I will parent my son however I wish,” the chief ripostes sternly.  
“If my Yumi was ill I’d help her get better, not put her down!”  
“It’s better not to entertain him. He’s old enough to sort himself out.”  
“How can you say that?” Matsuda buts in, horrified by what he’s hearing. “Don’t you realise that this could kill him?”  
“Don’t be silly, Matsuda, he’s not going to let himself die,” Souichirou retaliates, quick to dismiss the idea of losing his son.  
“On the contrary, I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought himself better off dead, with a father like you!” Aizawa exclaims impulsively on the spur of the moment, his emotions spilling out into his words, shocking everyone around him.  
“Aizawa!” Souichirou calls out as his colleague begins to dash towards the doors, displeased by this sudden lack of respect. “Where are you going?”  
“Where do you think I’m going!?” Aizawa questions irreverently. “To see my family.”  
“You will be back!” the chief orders.  
“I’ll be back when I feel like it!” the younger man mutters in response.

Gobsmacked, the chief simply gawks as Aizawa vacates the building. Surely, what he’s said shouldn’t be this much of an issue?

“Chief?” Matsuda manages to get out as he steps towards Souichirou to meet his eye. “I-if what you’ve said is true, you’ve got to talk to your son about it.”  
“We have talked,” the chief suspires, sounding dismayed and discontented.  
“And?”  
“He denied everything,” he says as he shakes his head, wondering where he went wrong with that boy.  
“So there’s a chance he might not actually be…?” Matsuda avoids _that_ horrible word like the disease that it is, foolishly filled with hope.  
“No, he is,” Souichirou concedes.  
“We’ve got to help him,” his subordinate chokes out, shedding a tear for his troubled friend.  
“He’ll help himself; he knows how,” the chief grumbles.  
“N-no, Chief, that’s not how this works,” Matsuda stammers, trying his hardest to hold back his tears. “We need to find him a specialist.”  
“Don’t be an idiot!” Souichirou scolds his younger, almost yelling. “My son is not a lunatic. He doesn’t need a specialist.”  
“You’re right, he isn’t a lunatic, but he does need hel-”  
“Don’t even go there, Matsuda!” he all but snarls with a menacing glint in his eyes. “Sit down and be quiet, I’ve had enough of this.”  
“Chief, this could _kill_ him!” Matsuda sobs.  
“Sit down,” Souichirou repeats coldly. “This discussion is over.”

Defeated and appalled, Matsuda acquiesces and backs off before he angers the chief any further. He stumbles over to his desk chair and practically falls into it, his breathing unsteady as he covers his mouth with both of his hands. Though his thoughts keep racing and his tears keep spilling, there’s one thing he knows: he has to help Light.

The chief looks on and lets out a sigh, wishing his colleagues wouldn’t get involved in his family quarrels. He hadn’t intended to upset anyone. Well, logically, he knew his suggestion would upset Light, but he hadn’t anticipated that things would get so heated.

He didn’t mean to expose Light’s disorder. In hindsight, he’s regretting it, for he only further embarrassed himself by blurting that out. News of this absolutely cannot reach the rest of the family; God knows they’d be publicly shamed! This matter must be kept lowkey until Light has fixed himself up and started acting right again.

The Yagami family have got to maintain their dignity and presence of mind. Through and through, they are respectable, resolute, rational individuals.

Thus, Souichirou pulls himself together, straightening his tie and standing up straight. He turns his head away from his weeping halfwit of a colleague to face Mogi, who is still sitting at the coffee table with the documents he was given in hand. Mogi quickly breaks eye contact and looks down at his papers, his expression showing no apparent emotion. Souichirou makes his way over at a calm pace.  
“Do you agree with me, at least?” he asks as he sits on the unoccupied settee, briefly gazing upon the empty plate and half-full mug Matsuda left on the coffee table.  
“Hm?” Mogi breaks his silence, looking up at the man sitting opposite him.  
“I saw you watching our argument.”  
“Frankly, Chief, I don’t want to get involved,” he divulges. “But I will say that I cannot approve of your actions nor your words.”  
“Huh?” the chief exclaims, wondering why nobody sees eye to eye with him.  
“That aside, I believe I might have found a link between some of the latest victims.”  
“Oh, indeed?” Souichirou inquires as he rises to his feet to take a closer look at Mogi’s notes.  
“It might be nothing,” Mogi says as the chief takes a seat beside him and eyes up the papers he has in hand, “but I thought it was worth mentioning.”

Paying the yelling downstairs no heed, a harrowed Light hurries through the maze of artificially-lit hallways, trying to get back to safety in his quarters before he collapses. He’s a few paces away from the lift before his emotions overpower him, mercilessly ripping him to shreds inside. The tears start flowing as he stumbles into the wall, and that’s when he surrenders. Emotions he didn’t even know he was capable of feeling gain mastery over him, bringing him to his knees as they swallow him whole. They fill his maimed mind and annihilate every last vestige of the hope he was clinging onto for dear life, savagely cutting the fragile strings and letting him fall deep into the abyss. Thwarted by the darkness within, he is unable to hold back the sobs that escape his shaking lips, nor is he able to gain control over the erratic breaths that escape him. He gives himself over, allowing everything inside to shatter into smithereens, stupefied by the agony that has broken free of the confines he has impounded it within and consumed him, enveloping him in its malevolent embrace. Its keen talons hungrily dig into his flesh and flay his protective hide, snatching away his perfectly-assembled veneer and reducing him to naught but a fragmented thrall, subservient to its every whim.

“Light?”

The near-empty hallway is resonant with the sound of L calling out that name, the name that Light barely recognises as his. L’s blurry figure enters his field of vision; the man kneels, not crouches, but _kneels_ before him. Those pale, spindly fingers reach out, and Light lets them touch him however they wish, unable to put up a fight even if he wanted to. He allows himself to be pulled nearer to his elder, remaining limp as L holds him close. He doesn’t reciprocate the embrace, unmoving as he weeps into his elder’s shoulder, smearing unsightly streaks of black makeup across the pure white fabric.

“I’m so sorry,” L whispers into Light’s ear, entwining his left hand with a few locks of the boy’s hair. “I promise I’ll keep you safe from now on.”

The distraught teenager’s only response is a piteous wail, muffled by his elder’s shoulder.

“It’s okay to cry,” L reassures, his voice soft and understanding. “It’s okay to scream. Let it all out.”

Light cannot scream. Agony’s incorporeal hands wring his neck and squeeze tight, forcing out choked cries that are cut off by the desperate, fluctuant breaths he is trying so hard to take in. He trembles in L’s possessive hold, remaining nonverbal as he exudes his pent-up pain, steeping everything that surrounds him in unalloyed, unfettered misery.

“I’m here with you, Light,” L whispers, wishing that his younger would just _respond_. “I’m going to keep you safe.”

Light poignantly keens in reply. L breathes deeply, untwining his fingers from those brittle locks so he can hold his dejected companion’s limp form closer and tighter until he’s practically squeezing what little life the boy has left out of him.

The rage within L burns stronger than ever before. Its tempting flames incite him, igniting within his vitiated mind the most callous ideas he has ever formed. They blissfully lick at his taut muscles and simply beg him to take this out on _something_, to embrace this feeling: the only feeling that fails to make him feel vulnerable.

Light is _his_ and nobody else’s. The thought of someone else bringing harm to this boy, the thought of someone else _tarnishing_ what has licitly become _his_ only acts as fuel to those untameable flames within.

Logically, L knows that, given time, they will peter out as they always do. They should not be his current focus, he reminds himself, for he cannot change that which has already come to pass.

Focusing on his emotions is a bad idea; those fickle little things exist only to beget sorrow and suffering - whose throes Light is presently tangled within.

“Talk to me,” L persuades, his voice mellifluent. “Please?”

Light seems heedless to L’s impassioned plea. However, he, consciously, repositions his head so that his forehead is resting against the shoulder into which he cries. His pained sobs continue to pervade the air, echoing throughout the hallway, unmuffled and unrestrained.

“I-” he only manages to get that one word out before those sobs cut him off.  
“Darling, please, tell me how I can help you,” L orders gently.  
“P-plea-”

A horrisonant caterwaul interrupts the teenager, unceremoniously fleeing his throat without permission. At this moment, he regains some control over his motor functions - enough to reciprocate L’s tight embrace. L sighs in relief as Light’s shaking arms wrap around his waist. Then, tremulous hands cling onto the fabric of his shirt with nothing less than a death grip.

“Let it out,” he urges his overwrought younger.

Light is cognisant enough to listen by now. He has to cerebrate over those words. After a little while, he makes his decision.

And then, he screams.

The heart-rending howl is hushed by the chest he rests against, though that fails to make it sound any less haunting. That evocative cry seeps through the pores of L’s skin and wrenches his gut, saturating his being with a sickening mélange of guilt, outrage, and melancholia. It disrupts his breathing, for this is a mélange redolent of times long-passed.

He fights to maintain control over himself, and he fights hard. The battle waged between him and the demons of his past has been a long-winded and tiresome one, yet he fully intends to emerge victorious.

He has to distract himself. He has got to focus on something other than the splintered half-memories that are slowly crawling out from the farthest corners of his mind and fostering within him their associated sensations.

Hurriedly, before he’s overwhelmed, he brings a hand to Light’s cheek and gently pushes the boy’s face away from his chest.

“Talk to me,” he again orders, trying to sound as assertive as possible, with a hand tangled amongst those frangible strands of hair.  
“I’m at my limit,” a lachrymal Light whimpers, pushing his forehead against L’s shoulder.  
“I know,” the elder of the two coos, running his fingers through his vanquished companion’s tresses in an attempt to soothe him. “I know, Dear.”  
“I can’t-” the teenager chokes up mid-sentence.  
“What can’t you do?” L asks gently. Each maudlin word of his drips with silver.  
“I can’t take this!” Light weeps, L’s presence being the only thing stopping him from relinquishing all control over himself.  
“I’m so sorry,” L whispers, Light’s presence being the only thing stopping him from letting the reminiscent sensations wreaking havoc within absorb him.

With a deep yet shaky breath, L places both of his palms on Light’s cheeks and pulls him away from his shoulder so he may lay eyes upon his countenance.

This is the worst he’s ever seen him.

Slowly, L removes one hand, then lets the other wander downwards until his fingers come to rest on the tip of Light’s chin.

Trails of ebon maquillage and droplets of salty tears drip down from those sorrow-filled eyes onto those carmine cheeks. His parted lips tremble just as much as the rest of his body. He’s given in.

Filled to the brim with authentic pity, L uses his free hand to brush back his younger’s fringe. He leans in closer and plants one decorous kiss on Light’s forehead, catching the boy gasp as he does so.

“Don’t let me go,” Light pleads sotto voce, still clinging onto the back of L’s shirt as if his fragile life depends on it.  
“I won’t,” L assures his younger, bringing their foreheads together so they may look one another in the eye.  
“You _can’t_,” Light desperately corrects him.  
“Don’t you dare try anything you’ll live to regret, Light,” L almost growls in warning.  
“Just…” a frail breath interrupts the teenager. He bites his bottom lip to subdue a sob, then restarts his sentence: “Just promise me you won’t let me go.”  
“Why are you saying this?” L asks breathily as he cups Light’s right cheek.  
“...I’m so tired,” Light confesses after a few seconds of silence.  
“That’s _okay_,” the detective soothes, wiping away his companion’s tear with a thumb. “That’s natural. In your situation, at least.”

Laboured, sob-laden breaths are Light’s only reply. Though he wants to communicate, the words aren’t coming. He’s slipping again, slipping back down into the endless abyss in his mind. His unsteady grip on reality is loosening.

All of a sudden, the tears stop. The sobbing comes to a halt. The hands that were so tightly bunching up the back of L’s shirt let go. Light’s eyes glaze over, and that’s when L knows, deep down, that he’s lost him.

“I’m sorry,” L repeats, knowing he has to keep talking if he wants to retain his balance of mind.

In a fervent effort to coax Light back into here and now, L leans in and plants a kiss on his left cheek.

It’s in vain. Light’s breath doesn’t even falter, remaining consistently shallow. His lifeless eyes don’t even widen.

L concedes defeat.

“You’re not fit to go back to work, I’m taking you back to our quarters,” he declares grievously as he picks up Light’s pliable form bridal-style.

He’s dead weight again. His head lolls, and his left arm is unnervingly pendulous.

If not for his minuscule, automatic life signs, he would be utterly indistinguishable from a corpse.

Trying to slow his breathing, L tentatively makes his way to the lift.

“I’ll help you clean yourself up, alright?” he mutters as an absent-minded Light stares up at him. “Your makeup, I mean. You’ve made a right mess of it.”

Noiseless, Light simply blinks. L doesn’t know why he expected a response. He lets out a defeated, dolorous sigh, then steps into the lift with his ragdoll in arms, resigning himself to the role of caregiver.

Peeking out from behind the corner of the hallway, Matsuda watches with wide eyes as those silver-coloured, metallic doors slide shut. He wonders, silently, how much of what he just saw he should tell the chief about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good God, y'all have no idea how emotional writing this chapter made me. Many tears were shed. Never have I ever so badly wanted to batter a fictional character.
> 
> Also, bit of a side note, but I'm sure all of you have noticed, as well as I, that there's a bit of a quality difference when you compare the earliest chapters to the latest. I'm thinking about going back and editing the earlier chapters, but want to make sure you're all okay with that first. Fear not, I won't change anything major, I just want to make the sentences and dialogue flow a little more naturally, fix some grammatical errors, add a bit more detail and make things sound less robotic, add some more dialogue tags, etc. Should I go ahead and do this or just leave everything as it is? Please, let me know in the comments.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. My mind hasn't been cooperating with me lately.
> 
> **!!! YOUR TRIGGER WARNING IS IN THE END NOTES !!!**  
(If you don't want a major spoiler and you're not easily upset/triggered, you're best off not reading them until you’ve finished the chapter)

Close to an hour of L’s ever-lasting laudations and perfervid paræneses is what it takes for Light to diffidently stand up of his own accord. From that point, another five minutes is what it takes to persuade him into taking those first few ungainly, unharmonious steps towards their bathroom.

During this hour, L is the most panicked he's been in a long time. Torturous physical sensations so horribly resonant of his past very nearly put him to rout, yet he pulls through, inhibiting them along with those nauseating emotions of his with time, relishing the palliating numbness as he continues in his sordid pursuit to rouse his younger.

As L rids him of slovenly maquillage and dried tears in the bathroom, Light stares ahead blankly. He's but a mindless marionette yielding himself to L’s systematic desires, easily-handled and passive. Though L’s glib tongue besets him with smooth-talk, he remains reticent, no matter how repentant his elder makes himself sound.

After he’s cleaned up, L leads him back into the bedroom, lowers him onto the bed with a light grip on his shoulders, then takes a seat beside him. Whispering more wheedling utterances into his ear, he enclasps his hand.

Light is blind to these blandishments. His placid exterior is impenetrable.

After five minutes, L’s flattering spiel devolves into a series of fraught pleas and apologies. For a moment, he catches Light sigh, and that’s what finally shuts him up. He watches on in fatuous hope as drawn-out movements follow the anguished exhalation; Light shuffles to his right, prises his hand away from L’s, ever so slowly repositions his legs, then lies down on his left side, assumes the fetal position, and nuzzles his pillow. The headrest is warm and silken against his cheek. Though it comforts him so, he soon loses all control over his movement. Once more, he lets the void within swallow him up, stilling without complaint.

Over the next half-hour, L ignores calls from Watari as he observes his younger, sitting beside him. He figures his handler must have finally seen at least some of today’s security footage. No doubt, he’s going to be given an insufferable lecture if he picks up his phone.

He counts ten incoming calls before they come to a halt. He’s starting to think Watari has given up before the sound of distant knocks catches his ear.

Discontented, he sighs. Why can’t that man leave well enough alone?

Minutes pass, and the periodic knocking continues. Eventually, L yells out, curtly instructing Watari to piss off.

That’s when his handler understands. There’s no getting through to L when he’s brooding; he learnt that long ago. He frowns, deciding to try again in a couple of hours.

Not long after the knocking ceases, L’s phone indicates he's received a text. He doesn’t bother reading it. Instead, he sulks as he, too, lies down, unconsciously mirroring Light’s position. Staring into vacant brown eyes, he tells their owner he wishes he could understand.

Another hour passes with no change in Light’s condition. After securing the boy in place by attaching his cuff to the wooden bedpost, L slips out of the room, seemingly unnoticed by Watari’s hawk eyes as he ventures into the kitchen downstairs. Though his own appetite is non-existent, he knows he has to take care of Light, who has become so frighteningly frail.

Light, forced into lying between L’s legs with the back of his head against his chest, manages a moderate amount of broth, a few slivers of scallion, a glass of electrolyte-laced water, and all his pills before he refuses any more. Though he simply wouldn’t chew, he willingly swallowed that which L brought to his lips for him. _It could be worse_, the elder of the two muses. _Something must be better than nothing_.

The rest of the day is uneventful. L hides away, fleeing from reality by ignoring more calls, texts, knocks, and yelled requests, wallowing in rebarbative regret. Come evening, he again fixes Light more soup and another glass of water. The teenager, showing no sign of improvement, obediently chokes it down; L blends it this time, so he needn’t chew. He takes his medicine without resistance, pleasing his elder, who rewards him by running a hand through his hair.

Soon, L realises he’s going to have to help his companion change into his pyjamas for the night. Carefully, he sets the empty bowl aside. Then, he repositions himself and coaxes the boy out of bed, tactfully letting him know what he's about to do.

Removing Light’s belt and trousers is a hassle; L struggles against tautening limbs, though the painstaking job gets done in no longer than five minutes. Since the nights are growing colder, L eases his younger into a pair of black, fleecy sweatpants he seldom seems to wear. Not wanting to encroach upon any boundaries, L chooses not to remove either of Light’s upper garments, leaving him in his jumper and t-shirt as he guides him back into bed, then tucks him in.

The detective sighs as he strokes his younger’s hair with the backs of two fingers. Unsurprisingly, he receives no response from his senseless companion.

Feeling a little dejected - and so exhausted - L frees his hands and reaches for the cuff fastened to the bedpost. The metal makes a satisfying _clink_ as the key turns in the lock. In sombre silence, he clasps the cuff over his right wrist and again secures himself to his suspect.

He must get back to work now. Something has to distract him before he spirals.

Sluggishly, he takes out his laptop and sets it atop the duvet. Whilst the screen lights up, he rummages in his top drawer, then pulls out a lollipop. With shaking hands, he undoes the wrapper and shoves the cherry-flavoured treat into his mouth.

Alas, it offers no repose. The once-satisfying saccharine taste spreading across his tongue has palled, becoming sickly and unappetising.

For a second, he grimaces in revulsion.

Regardless, he’s going to finish it, for he’s practically running on empty; the only other sustenance he’s taken in today is the vegetables and little amount of broth Light didn’t finish off at lunchtime. He knows he has to keep himself alert, for he cannot risk sleeping, not after how he felt earlier. Those feelings oft precede his nightmares.

Though L gets little done, he does manage to stay awake, despite a paucity of sweet diversions. Night comes, then goes, and morning soon arrives. He lets his younger sleep in, knowing there’s no way he's getting that kid to work in his present state. By nine, he thinks it curious that Light doesn’t seem to have awoken; indeed, he lies in the exact position he was left in last night: on his right side with his head against the pillow, his left arm bent at the elbow, his palm lying flat in front of his abdomen, his right arm outstretched in front of him, and his legs bent at the knees.

“Light?” the morose man mumbles, placing a hand on his younger’s left shoulder.

He tries to shake him, only to be met with complete resistance. Thus, he tries once more. The boy simply will not budge.

L withdraws his hand. _Why can’t I move him_?

Swiftly, he shuts his laptop and sets it aside atop his bedside cabinet, then shifts his position, so his right hand supports his weight.

“Light?” he repeats shakily, realising that the teenager’s eyes are open, yet vacuous and unblinking as they stare off to the right.

Tensing up, L hurriedly presses a couple of fingers against Light’s neck and checks for a pulse.

It’s present and steady, as is his breathing. He’s alive, at the very least, but L doesn’t know how aware he is.

He swears under his bated breath, mystified as his eyes fasten upon Light’s stuporous form. This cannot be good. He shifts his weight one more time, then gingerly wraps both of his hands around Light’s upper left arm.

As his heart pounds, he wrenches the rigid limb; it moves no more than an inch out of place before immediately snapping back into its original position, utterly impervious to L’s full strength.

The detective’s respiration falters as a crushing sense of dread perfuses his being. For once, he finds himself at a complete loss. A frayed string of fretful, foul phrases plays within his mind, masterfully subduing any rational thought threatening to emerge. This cannot be happening.  
“Light, please,” he beseeches, his voice unstable, as he again tries to contort that navy-clad arm.

No matter how hard his grip, no matter how roughly he tugs, it cannot be moved from its present position, as if the tender flesh has transmogrified into solidified concrete. Light is petrified, in more ways than one, and cool to the touch. And yet, despite these corpselike characteristics, he is very much alive; his blinks, unremarkable albeit incredibly infrequent, make that much apparent.

With a heavy heart, L reaches into his front pocket. His limber fingers remain steady, despite his patent panic, as they clasp around the metal of his mobile phone. With haste, he flicks it open and calls Watari’s number.

The dial tone has never sounded so grating. L’s anxiety worsens with each repeating ring; it fiercely gnaws at him, gradually wearing him away as a rodent would a rough-hewn wooden slab. The feelings he’s been trying so desperately to destroy all creep up on him at once, threatening to toss him back into the unpitying claws of the illness whose presence within him he rashly turns a blind eye to. It takes Watari no more than ten seconds to answer, but they seem like the longest ten seconds of L’s life.

_“Liste-”_  
“Come quickly; you’ve got to help!”  
_“Has something happened?”_ the older man questions apprehensively.  
“I-” L falters, stopping to take a deep breath, “I can’t move Light.”  
_“What do you mean?”_  
“He’s just...” he trails off as he thinks up an appropriate word, “...resistant. Won’t let me move him. Not one inch.”  
_“Does he feel stiff?”_ Watari asks, suddenly sounding a lot more worried.  
“Very.”  
_“But he is conscious, yes?”_  
“Definitely, he’s...fuck, please help! I-”  
_“Stay calm,”_ he urges. _“I will be with you as soon as I can. He is definitely conscious, yes?”_  
“Well, he’s blinking, but infrequently,” L divulges, trying to get his breathing under control. “He’s got a pulse, and he’s breathing, too, but he’s...he’s _cadaverous_, and rigid, and-”  
_“Try not to panic,”_ his handler interrupts. _“How long has he been this way?”_  
“I-I don’t know, I mean…” L thinks back, “he did seem a bit stiff-limbed late last night, but he was still quite pliable. He hasn’t moved from the position I put him to bed in.”  
_“I see. I will be with you in a minute. You are going to have to unlock your doors for me,”_ Watari announces, keeping his composure.  
“I will do,” L replies, the knowledge that help is on the way calming him a touch. “Can I hang up? I’ll need two hands.”  
_“Feel free.”_

L doesn't need to be told twice. With a shaky sigh, he ends the call. The drumming of his racing heart and the whooshing of his surging blood mixed in with his feverish hyperventilation are the only sounds filling his ears as he clumsily unshackles himself. Carelessly, he tosses the empty cuff onto the duvet and jumps to his feet, hurrying towards the bedroom door and unlocking it with haste. The once-soft beige carpet now feels rough against his bare feet as he advances, though he's much too frightened to care about the unpleasant, scratchy sensation. He doesn't flinch, effortlessly making his way across the room. He stops in front of the door, plunging his hand deep into one of his back pockets. His fingers fumble around for a little while, trying to find the correct key. A good few seconds pass, but he knows he's found it when his middle finger runs over the familiar little notches in the blade. A shallow, brief sigh escapes him as he removes the key from his pocket and turns it in the lock. He grasps at the handle and, for an ephemeral moment, thinks about rushing out to meet Watari in the corridor, but then realises that more likely than not, he’ll be displeased with him for what he did to Light the other night. Careworn and dismayed, he leans forward, resting his forehead on the door’s wooden panels as he tries to regain his long-lost bearings.

His heart rate shows no sign of slowing, nor does his breathing. For the life of him, he cannot seem to recall the last time he felt this afraid.

Nor the last time he felt this guilty.

The knowledge he is in some way culpable begets _excruciation_: unbridled, unendurable excruciation that floods his febrile being and overpowers his senses. Anguish has always made short work of him, though he contends with all he has. He knows now, deep within, that it's only a matter of time before the pain pulls him under, leaving him to drown in this inexorable déjà vu.

All of a sudden, the door handle is tugged from the outside. With some effort, L corrals his garbled half-memories and re-engages his mind, pulling his hand away from the metallic handle as he takes a few steps backwards. His trepidation only worsens as Watari leerily steps inside with a black briefcase held tight in his right hand.  
“Are you quite alright?” Watari inquires as he closes the door. L hasn't looked this haggard in months.  
“No, I’m not alright!” L snaps back, having averted his eyes in shame.

For a second, Watari’s neutral veneer cracks. Those virulent words seem to so easily slip from that boy’s lips.

“Talk to me if you need to,” he offers, knowing something is amiss. “How many times have I to tell you that I care?”  
“It’s Light you need worry about, not me.”  
“I worry about the both of you.”  
L merely sulks in response, glaring with his head hung as Watari takes to his heels. He follows close behind, moping his way into the bedroom. As L shuts the door behind them, Watari approaches his patient slowly, meticulously studying both him and his surroundings. Nothing seems to have been obviously tampered with. He leans his briefcase against the bed, then kneels next to it, vis-à-vis with the quiescent teenager. With a huff, L perches upon his side of the bed, looming over Light’s slight figure.  
“Yagami-kun?” Watari calls out softly.

Light doesn’t seem to recognise his own name. He simply gazes into nihility with exanimate eyes, showing not even the slightest hint of a reaction.

“This is Watari. Are you feeling alright?”

Nothing still. Those lips may as well be sewn shut.

“I understand if you do not want to talk,” Watari attests. A few seconds pass, then he holds out his right hand and asks: “How about shaking my hand? Would you like to do that?”

Evidently not.

“Okay, you don't have to,” he utters after a short while, withdrawing his hand. “Now, just relax for me. I'd like to move your arm. Only gently, though - I shan’t hurt you.”  
L watches, battling his crisis of conscience, as his handler plants his left hand on the teenager’s right wrist and the other on his right forearm. Unchanged, Light resists all attempts of repositioning.  
“Relax,” Watari orders. “Keep your arm loose. I am not going to harm you.”  
For once, Light seems entirely unaltered by a benevolent intonation. Watari puts more strength into trying to readjust the position of the limb in his grasp, but this amounts to nothing. It's rock-solid.  
“I told you I couldn’t move him,” L grumbles sotto voce, barely intelligible despite using his mother tongue.  
“I see now,” Watari replies, slipping his left hand under Light’s oversized jumper to check his pulse.  
“...What do you suspect?” L questions impatiently, unable to withstand more than a few seconds of silence.  
“His vitals seem normal enough,” the doctor reveals, then removes both hands from the limb they clasp.  
“What does that mean!?” the detective almost scoffs. “Normal ‘enough’?”  
“I suspect he has slight bradycardia,” Watari mutters, stroking Light’s supine right palm with two fingertips. He isn't surprised - though he is relieved - when he receives no reflexive response.  
“What causes that?” L asks, sounding more and more restive with each word he utters.  
“Malnutrition,” his handler sighs. As he catches sight of the recently-inflicted wounds on Light’s wrist, his lips morph into a frown.  
“Oh,” L breathes.  
Promptly, Watari brushes away his patient’s fringe, exposing his forehead. L’s memories keep swirling as he observes with a palpitating heart, shamefaced.  
“Alright,” the doctor says, switching language again, “I'm going to tap your forehead, Yagami-kun. Whilst I do this, I would like you to keep your eyes open for me. Do _not_ blink, okay?”  
Predictably, there's no verbal reply from Light. He doesn't recoil nor react in any way as the older man reaches around the back of his head to hover his right hand over his forehead. He blinks, just once, as Watari softly taps his glabella with his index finger.  
“What are you doing?” L asks, ignorant of whatever procedure this is.  
“Checking his reflexes.”  
“Are they normal?”  
“From what I can tell, yes, though, admittedly, neurology is not my speciality.” When he's satisfied with his findings, he stops tapping Light’s forehead, then returns those displaced locks to their original position. “You are sure he hasn't hit his head recently?” he asks, opening his briefcase.  
“I would’ve heard and, surely, you would’ve seen,” L remarks as his elder pulls out a thin, long, black box.  
“Then I doubt there's been any brain damage,” Watari thinks out loud, retrieving from the box some sort of metal stick.  
“What’s that?” L questions warily.  
“My reflex hammer.”  
“What do you suppose is wrong with him?” he inquires. His eyes follow the hammer's end as it trails across Light’s palm.  
“I am afraid I cannot yet say.”  
“Well, what do you suspect!?” L raises his voice, his breath still unsteady.  
“NCSE, catatonia, aboulia...”  
Watari takes the hammer away from Light’s palm, then promptly pulls the sleeve covering his left arm up above the elbow. Now he’s seeing these injuries in the flesh, he’s realising just how much pain Light must have been put through in order to sustain them. Feeling disillusioned, he averts his eyes from the scabs and bruises on Light’s arm to meet L’s line of sight. In a matter of seconds, the abashed detective breaks the eye contact, aimlessly looking off to the side.  
“I cannot believe you,” Watari sighs in arrant displeasure, then turns his attention back to Light, whose rigid bicep he palpates. “You have put him through so much needless torment.”  
“‘NCSE’?” L ignores the aspersions thrown his way, again focusing his attention on his younger, whose arm he sees twitch a little when Watari strikes his own thumb with the hammer's foamy head.  
“Non-convulsive status epilepticus. A seizure,” the doctor elaborates shortly before checking the triceps reflex. “Though, I think that less likely now, since his reflexes seem normal.”  
Hearing the word ‘seizure’ in this context makes the detective’s stomach knot. “Will he be alright?”  
“...Only brain imaging can tell us that,” Watari reveals after moving onto the brachioradialis reflex.  
“You can’t do that, can you?” L asks, gnawing on his bottom lip.  
“No.” Watari shakes his head, lowering his hammer for a moment.

L sighs through his nose, working up a cold sweat. Watari stands, then, unexpectedly pulls the dark brown duvet aside.

“What are you doing?” L questions, shifting his weight to allow full removal of the duvet from Light’s figure.  
“There are reflexes in the lower extremities that I need to check, too,” Watari utters, then grabs ahold of Light’s left foot.  
“I think you’re right about it not being a seizure,” L remarks, watching the teenager’s Achilles reflex.  
“Indeed?” Watari queries, preparing to check the plantar response.  
“It’s…”  
“How long has he been like this, L?”  
“It’s been a gradual thing,” L says à contrecœur. “For a while now, he’s not been moving a lot; I’m sure you’ve noticed as well as I. He’ll stay in the same position for hours and just stare off into the distance, not speaking unless spoken to. And, even then, it can take a few tries to get him to reply.” L swallows, taking a second to steady his breathing. “Yesterday, after that ordeal with his father, he went mute and unresponsive, but I could move him; he was like a ragdoll, almost. I went to wake him this morning, and...found him like _this_.”  
“He has had stuporous episodes before, then?” Watari, done with his examination, takes a few steps to his left to pick up the little black box from Light’s nightstand, within which he again secures his hammer.  
L shifts his weight once more. “I suppose so.”  
The doctor looks stern as he slides his box back into its mesh sleeve. “And you haven't thought to tell me about these?”   
“They’ve been brief,” L snaps. “Thought you would’ve seen, anyway. On the cameras.”  
“There are certain things you two do that I prefer not to see,” Watari mutters, closing his briefcase.  
“Fair enough,” L murmurs. “What are you doing now?” he queries as Watari reaches into the right pocket of his dark trousers.  
“Calling 119,” the older man states calmly as his fingers hover over the keypad of his mobile.  
“You don’t have to do that!” L insists, preparing to snap into action.  
“He needs an EEG and an MRI.” Watari types in the first two digits.  
“No hospitals, Tari!” L practically jumps out of bed and dashes over to his elder, abruptly snatching the phone out of his hands before he has a chance to ring the number.  
“We haven’t time for your childish games,” his exasperated elder sneers.  
“Please, can you not treat him yourself? If it isn't brain damage or a seizure I fail to see why he would need brain imaging?”  
“If he is catatonic, the underlying cause needs to be identified.”  
“Hang on, a-are you telling me he’s schizophrenic?”  
“Listen to me properly, L! Stop repining! Catatonia can be indicative of several conditions.”  
“Such as?”  
“Unipolar depression, bipolar depression, uremia...there is no way to tell until we get him into the hospital.”  
“We can’t hospitalise him!”  
“Why not?”  
“Just look at him!” L hurls. “They’d throw him on the psych ward and shove a feeding tube down his neck without even batting an eyelash,” he snarls contemptuously. “Do you really want to traumatise him like that? After all he’s already been through?”  
“They cannot keep him longer than they need to without the permission of his guardian.”  
“Be logical, Quil-”  
“Be careful with that name,” Watari spits.  
“Don’t be a hypocrite!” L jibes. “I’m sure you can wipe or alter the footage. As I was saying, be logical. No doubt, his father’ll be more than happy to get rid of him.”  
“Don’t say that!”  
“Can’t you see?” He softens his voice, manipulating the situation. “Yesterday, it became apparent that he sees this kid as nothing more than a letdown. He wouldn’t hesitate to cast his own son aside if it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with him and his illnesses any longer. And Light’s going to resist that, Tari,” he claims, making himself look upset. “Trust me; he is going to kick, and he is going to scream,” he delineates, gradually affecting a more hostile tone. “Do you know what they’ll do then? They’ll drug him up, and they’ll keep him in this state. They’ll make sure he’s utterly helpless, physically unable to resist whatever they choose to subject him to.”  
“I understand you, but, by this point, he is a danger to himself. An intervention is long overdue.”  
“But he was just starting to get better!”  
“What!?”  
“He started eating new foods, he agreed to talk to you, he started taking his medicine...”

L freezes mid-sentence, his lips parted.

“...do you think the medication caused this?” he continues, dropping that falsified, melodic tone of voice.  
“What, the trazodone? I should not think so.”  
“That night he had a panic attack in your quarters…”  
“What about it?”  
“I thought he might be hearing things.”  
“What made you suspect as much?” Watari questions fearfully.  
L turns his head to look at his younger. “He kept muttering something about an ‘it’ that wouldn’t shut up, don’t you remember?”  
“I do not suppose you pressed the issue further?”  
He looks away when that ever-increasing feeling of self-reproach becomes too much. “He never mentioned it again.”   
“Psychotic symptoms during panic attacks are not unheard of.”  
“He said something about it being constant,” he recalls, heaving another unsteady sigh.

Watari pores over their choices for a short while. Now more than ever, he wants Light admitted to a secure hospital in which he can obtain the assistance he needs to make a recovery.

“Give me my phone back,” he demands.  
“No,” L retaliates, shaking his head as he grips the device in his hand tighter.  
“He needs a formal mental status examination as soon as possible.”  
Watari takes a step closer. L, in turn, hastily takes a step backwards, looking like he's just seen a ghost.  
“Honestly, are you sure you're alright yourself?” his handler asks, alarmed by this trepidatious demeanour.  
“I’m _fine_!” L insists, contradicting his earlier assertion as he glouts.  
Watari sees straight through his adoptee’s bare-faced lie. “Are you relapsing?”  
“I’m alright, okay!?” L yells hostilely.

Out of the corner of his narrowed eye, Watari notices his otherwise immobile patient’s orbs dart towards the source of the auditory stimuli.

“Drop it,” L commands, his voice cracking.  
“He responded to that,” Watari comments, his voice hushed.  
“Really?” L’s voice is equally hushed as he turns his head to check on his younger. Indeed, his eyes have moved.  
Wordless, Watari takes a step to his left, then approaches the lapidified teenager, whose eyes track his movements. L follows suit, creeping over to his side of the bed as his elder crouches, with only one knee against the carpet this time, to bring himself to Light’s level. Almost immediately, the boy again looks off to the right. As L takes his seat on the edge of the bed, Watari’s laboured sigh catches his ear.  
“My phone, L,” Watari implores. “Now,” he adds in a strict tone.  
“I refuse to let you traumatise him.”  
“Must I take it by force?” he cautions, rising once again.  
“You’d best not,” L exhorts. “I’m…” he hesitates for a few seconds, having to rephrase the sentence in his head, “I’m all wound up.”  
“I know,” Watari sighs, reading between the lines and understanding that physical contact is to be avoided. “Regardless, he needs prompt treatment.”  
“You’re a doctor. Surely, you know how to treat this?”  
“Benzodiazepines are controlled drugs!”  
“So? You’ve got money, and I’ve got connections.”  
“Are you proposing that we get some smuggled in?” Watari keeps his voice down, barely believing his ears.  
“Why not?” L asks, donning a poker-face to mask his inner turmoil. “It might save the poor bugger from further mental scarring.”  
“And you have the gall to call me a hypocrite…” his elder muses, shaking his head.  
“_Plus ça change_,” L replies with a shrug.  
“I cannot allow this,” Watari declaims. “Keeping him here rather than a hospital may endanger his life.”  
“How so?”  
“For a start, I may be mistaken. This may be something much more malignant than catatonia.”  
“You’ve found no sign of organic illness, right?” L asks, unmindful of his handler’s soulful supplications.  
“Other than the obvious signs of poor nutrition, no,” Watari explains, his features contorted.  
“Then the likelihood is that the cause is psychiatric,” L offers up, trying to mask the tremors accompanying his words.  
“Which is why I would like him to undergo an MSE!”  
“I know him well, Tari. Trust me when I say he is not going to cooperate as easily as we would like him to,” he again alters his voice, trying to persuade his father-figure into granting his wishes. “He is in deep denial.”  
“Still, I cannot treat him alone. He needs help I am simply unable to provide.”  
“Whatever professional help he's offered he is going to refuse,” L explains, imitating his elder’s woeful tone. “Believe me; I've tried to talk him into seeing someone, but he insists there’s nothing wrong.”  
“The sooner he is hospitalised, the sooner he can get help and come to terms with his ailments.”  
“Hospitalisation is going to destroy him!”  
“He has surely already hit rock bottom,” the doctor mutters. “This cannot possibly get any worse.”  
As dreadful memories come creeping back to haunt L, the tremors in his voice are unmasked. “You said that about A, too.”  
“You _are_ relapsing…” Watari realises, with his heart in his stomach. L never mentions A in passing conversation. The memories are too painful, he’d explained not long after his successor’s passing, that’s why he chose to suppress them.  
“I’ll be fine!” his younger snaps. “I can deal with this. Worry about Light for now.”  
“He needs hospital treatment.”  
“No, he doesn’t,” L replies childishly.  
“You cannot seriously expect me to obtain the medication needed illicitly!” Watari vociferates.  
“You’re more than capable of bailing yourself out if need be,” L deadpans.  
“If my tentative diagnosis _is_ correct, he will not be able to eat or drink. Need I explain why this is a serious issue? He has already macerated himself.”  
“Do you not think I see that!?” the detective yells again, making Light blench ever so slightly. “I’ve been watching him waste away, Tari.”  
“It may take several days or even several months or years for him to make a recovery,” Watari sighs once again, at his wits’ end. “If he is in the hospital, adequate nutrition can be provided via a feeding tube.”  
“Oh, I’m sure that’ll thrill him!” L jibes. “Can’t you see I’m trying to spare him any further hurt?”  
“Please, be sensible!”  
“You are capable of administering the medication he needs, yes?”  
“Indeed I am, but-”  
“Then we obtain that medication, and we treat him here,” he cuts Watari off. “I’ll explain away his absence by saying he’s listened to his father and agreed to take a break in order to gather himself.”  
“You make it sound so simple,” the doctor says with subtle mirth.  
“The only real hurdle is obtaining the medication, yes?”  
“I suppose so.”  
“What’s the chance he’ll respond to it?”  
“He is likely to respond within a few hours of administration,” he explains.  
“I’ll find someone who can get it to us within the next twenty-four hours.” L relaxes his position once more, shuffling back and leaning against the headboard with his legs outstretched and Watari’s phone still secured in one of the hands over his abdomen. “Dosage?”  
Watari goes quiet for a second, baffled by this frivolous behaviour. “...This is not a game!”  
“I never said it was,” L ripostes. “Dosage?” he repeats shakily.  
“Catatonia is indicative of severe psychiatric illness,” Watari sneers. “Why are you not taking this seriously?”  
“I am taking this very seriously,” L growls. “I have explained to you, time and time again, that hospitalisation is going to leave him scarred for life. We will keep this quiet, and we will treat him here.”  
“I cannot allow that,” the doctor suspires.  
“Do you want me to tell him your name?” L asks, blithely overstepping a clear line.  
“Excuse me!?” Watari exclaims, his brow furrowed.  
“Do as I say and there needn’t be a fuss,” L threatens, lowering his voice in both ways and affecting a cold, calculated gaze. “You don’t want to endanger the kids' lives, do you?” he inquires, familiar with Watari’s weaknesses. “Name and dosage, please.”

For a moment, Watari is lost for words. The worst part is that at this point, he wouldn’t put this past L. He would endanger the lives of innocent children - innocent children he holds dear - if it meant he got what he wanted.

“Intravenous lorazepam,” Watari gives in, a bitter taste in his mouth as he spits out the words. “Say five milligrams.”  
“Thank you,” L replies, holding out the phone in his grasp. “You can have this back now. Just remember, I’m serious about what I said.”

With one last sigh, the older man shakes his head.

“Those kids are meant to mean the world to you,” he utters, making his way over to the detective.  
“You know damn well I’d give them my life.” L watches vigilantly as his handler retrieves his mobile from his open palm. “But I need to solve this case.”  
“This is not healthy!” Watari opines, beyond exasperation. “You are obsessed!”  
“Should I be your main concern at present?” the detective counters. “You’re neglecting your patient.”  
Watari holds his tongue in response, not having the energy for another argument. His heart breaks for both L and Light, who he knows are - at least partly - his responsibilities. Dourly, he walks towards his briefcase, which he again crouches before to open. 

_I'm getting much too old for this_.

Near-silence fills the room as the doctor takes several small blood samples from the semi-conscious teenager. Though a tourniquet is impossible to attach, given the position of Light’s arms, the veins are accessed easily enough, and he completes the process without issue. When Watari is done with each syringe, L observes him capping each needle then setting them upon Light’s nightstand.  
“You cannot inflict upon him what was inflicted upon you,” Watari finally brings the silence to an end, capping the last used needle.  
“Don’t mention that!” L snaps speedily as his eyes dart towards his handler.  
The older man does not comply with the order given. “This is not at all fair on him, L.”  
“And it was fair on me!?” L questions, perplexed by this sudden, unrequested confrontation.  
“You know that's not what I meant; I-”  
“This is how I cope, okay?” he interrupts, now tenser than ever.  
“You and I both know this stopped being a coping mechanism a long time ago.”  
“Just leave it be,” L demands quietly. “You’ll thank me in the long run.”  
“I have been so patient with you, L,” Watari says. “I have long-hoped, perhaps foolishly, that one day you would recognise the error of your ways and show this child some mercy. That day is not going to come, is it?” he questions softly. “I can no longer live as a bystander,” he declares when he receives no answer.

L's attendant’s words only exacerbate the hellish emotions whirling within.

“...I don’t understand why he hasn’t confessed yet,” the detective mumbles, gazing into his lap. “Surely, prison would be preferable to this?”  
“If he confesses then he confesses,” Watari replies. “Leave it at that. You cannot continue trying to force it out of him.”  
“But-”  
“No buts,” he interjects, still so soft-spoken. “This has gotten way out of hand. What if he is innocent?”  
“Stop it,” L advises in a hushed, quivering voice.  
“I do apologise, L, but it is a real possibi-”  
“Stop making me feel guilty!” he gasps out, urgently interposing.

In L’s trembling lips and tear-filled eyes, unadulterated horror and grief make themself apparent. His protective façade has been rent into mere wisps, yet he clings onto its last few lacerated fragments as a starved dog would a gnawed bone, helplessly trying to salvage it. Debasing mitts relentlessly paw at his friable framework, enclasping and compressing his thumping heart, enriching those detestable feelings.

They've finally caught up with him, after all these years of subjugation. He cannot run anymore, not from the sickness within.

In terror, he takes to his feet at full pelt and makes straight for the lavatory. Though Watari calls out his name, he cannot bring himself to reply to that voice, which rebounds off the surrounding walls. Hyperventilating again, he lollops into the bathroom, immediately locking the door behind him. Unbidden, brittle sounds of fright escape his quaving lips as he frantically paces to and fro, his bare feet against bitter tiles. This is too much. He’s being pulled under; the icy water has risen to his chest and almost entirely submerged him. Try though he may, he cannot fight. In a desperate attempt to put himself at rest, he stops in front of the mirror, clutching the sink's edge as he glimpses at his countenance.

That which he lays eyes upon horrifies him further.

This is not him. What he sees are indeed his own lineaments, but _this_ is not him. This is not L. This is someone else. This is...

The hand that entwines itself within L’s dark hair’s hold is unforeseen and unwelcome. Bestial digits fiercely tug tousled tresses, extracting from their owner's throat a half-suffocated, high-pitched cry; L's assailant yanks his hair so viciously they displace his fringe as they pull his head back, so it rests against their shoulder, and yet, he doesn't struggle. He stopped struggling a long time ago. Even as a warm, fully-clad body presses against his from behind, and even as equally warm fingers snake their way up his shirt, dancing across his skin to sadistically claw at his wounded abdomen, a faint wince and a whispered whimper are his only reactions as he holds onto the sink tighter. The scent of strawberries is distinct in the breath that tickles his ear and elicits shivers, frissons of both familiar fear and adamantine amativeness - feelings so appalling, yet so appealing. The breaths caressing his ear develop into predatory, malefic cackles that stuff the room to its limit, blighting the very air taken in. That sardonic laughter resonates as it swells, shattering the peace and bouncing off the walls, until…

It wanes. Until it whittles down into mere breaths once more, huffs made uneven by pure apoplexy. Those fingers pinch at L's heavily-bruised skin, calling forth piteous yelps. In response to these miserable sounds, his aggressor lets out another, singular, laugh. That laugh is almost otherworldly. It's so devilish and deathly, ghastly and grim; it’s remarkably...déifique, in a peculiar, fucked-up way.

Unearthly cachinnation dominates L’s hearing. The grip on his abdomen loosens and, for a second, he thinks perhaps a little mercy will be shown as that limb goes limp. He realises he is severely mistaken, however, when the hand tangled within his hair thrusts him forwards, propelling him face-first into the mirror. It shatters within an instant, and he wauls in agony as razor-sharp, vitreous shards transfix through his pallid skin, ruthlessly insetting themselves within his flesh. With a twisted expression, he dissolves into tears as his attacker smushes his visage against the glass, begetting a guttural, lingering, ear-piercing howl that calls forth even wilder, more alien chortles. As they trail through his skin, the acute splinters embedded within form shallow gashes; freshly-fetched, scarlet blood besmears his creased forehead and his left cheek, dripping down onto the milk-white china onto which he clutches. Agonised cries flee his throat as the tears keep flowing and blending in with his lifeblood to create a watered-down, saline mixture of bodily fluids which he's certain his aggressor will joyously lap up. After what feels like an eternity, the hand in his hair finally pulls him away from the fractured reflective surface, though the excruciation is unabating due to a keen particle still burrowed beneath his hypodermis. His assailant's grip makes him stagger backwards, to create some distance between him and the sink. At long last, that hand sets his ebony locks free, and for a moment, he feels the slightest scintilla of relief, before a fist cruelly collides with his nose, forcing out another wail as vermilion liquid splatters, even landing within his gaping mouth. Uncontrollably, he pules, trembling as he stands in place and meekly accepts everything inflicted upon him, long-attuned to the sensation of blood trickling down from the slashes upon his brow.

By now, this is commonplace. This is something he has come to expect.

Mere seconds pass before his aggressor is once again lacing into him. The punch to his stomach, discoloured from attacks prior, is beyond savage and intensely felt, insofar that it knocks the wind from him. As he desperately fights for breath, all whilst the rich saltiness pouring from his bludgeoned nostril accumulates in his mouth, sheathing the cerise flesh in a claret coat, he is so perniciously shoved to the frigid floor. The resulting pain that sears through his skull as it smashes into the glazed ceramic slings him into dysequilibrium which diminishes him to a dazed, delirious state in which he can barely sense his attacker crawling atop him, and can barely feel the ignoble, depraved fingers toying with his trouser button and fly.

“Open the door right this instant!”

Wait...is that Mr Wammy’s voice? No, he can’t be here, not now! He cannot see this. He cannot know!

“You must listen to me, L. Do you know where you are?”

Well, of course, he knows where he is! He’s in...he’s...oh, this is a bathroom, isn’t it? This is...wait, this...is this not Wammy’s House?

“We are in Japan right now. Do you understand what is happening? Please, let me in, I can help.”

“_You can’t help_”, he wants to say, but the words don’t come. No one can help. Nothing can alleviate this stinging, throbbing pain, this immedicable suffering. As the anguish stabs through him like a honed dagger, unrestrained squalls and venereous groans pervade the air. This agony not only befouls his skin but each infinitesimal fibre of his defiled being; it withers his very spirit, and he understands fully that this vicious torture shan’t cease, not until his offender is satisfied. Not until he is reduced to a near-noiseless, hollow shell shuddering on the gelid ground, so fucking tuned-out and exsanguinated he can’t discern what’s happening and what’s not. Nobody is coming to his rescue. Down on the first floor, his screams will surely be inaudible.

“L, please, listen. Focus on your surroundings and tell me what you see.”

That’s Mr Wammy again. Why is he here? He should be with everyone else, having dinner downstairs...

“I know you can hear me. This is not happening to you anymore, can you understand? We are in Japan, remember?”

What? Not happening...anymore? But this pain feels so verisimilar! It’s so _vivid_ and oh, _fuck_, it’s worsening with each transient millisecond; it keeps carving through his sinew, penetrating deep into his endoskeleton. Though he screams, and screams, and _screams_, all this earns him is a raw, reddened throat.

“Speak to me,” Mr Wammy’s disembodied voice implores. “What do you see in front of you?”

L wants to reply, but the only sounds escaping him are strangulated sobs. He sees, through a blurred mosaic of carmine, beady eyes staring down at him, leering with rapture.

“What about your sense of touch, L? What can you feel around you?”

He feels…

He feels denim against his palm and fingertips.

But...that can’t be right, he’s...he’s not…

“Unlock this door, please! You know nothing can harm you if I am by your side.”  
“_It hurts_…” L gets out in an enfeebled voice, tentatively grasping at that denim in his hold.  
“Not anymore,” his parental figure reassures him, slowly guiding him back into the present. “This happened a long time ago. Do you know where we are now?”  
“...Japan?” L breathlessly questions through tears, finally taking notice of his handler’s earlier reassurances.  
“Spot on.” Watari smiles slightly, though L cannot see. “Tokyo, to be exact, remember? In the Task Force’s headquarters. You are in your bathroom. You are safe. Will you unlock the door for me, please?”

Uncompelled, cacophonous sounds ranging from breathy, drawn-out whines to desolate, banshee-like screeches are L’s only rejoinder as he bawls. This hurt is unabating; it seems to impale even his soul and char every living cell. It’s gouging out his élan vital and undermining his amour propre, dousing him in filth and smothering his incipient identity. Dissimilar to the inner, perpetual torment, his external environment now appears murky and blended; it’s a distorted amalgam of two separate, coalescing scenarios. In one, he is being brutalised and debased, and in the other, he is clutching denim…

It's the denim of his jeans, he discovers, espying the faintest drop of azul within the sanguine ocean.

Azul denim covers the knees he rests his aching forehead upon and the calves his cotton-clad arms are wrapped around. Timidly, his wettened eyelashes bat against it, proving to him its presence. With this newly-attained lucidity, he manages - in this less torturous scenario - to steadily drag his dampened brow away from that material. Though his nonplussing surroundings still mingle and mutate, he can discern several new objects phasing in and out of his vague field of vision - the bottom of a sink, a tiled floor below him, and a door to his right. With laggard, tremulous movements, he crawls nearer to that empyreal doorway, hauling himself forward in search of salvation, all whilst fighting through overpowering distress. He unfurls his left arm, reaches out, and, miraculously, manages to unlock it.

As soon as Watari descries this, he barges into the bathroom. What meets him is the sight of a shuddering, weeping L doubled over on the floor, gasping and squalling in arrant agony. Instantly, he brings himself to that boy’s level, kneeling before him.  
“L, you are safe,” he assures him. “I am here with you, okay? You're not in pain anymore,” he soothes from a short distance, steering clear of physical contact.  
“_Hurts_...” L whimpers dismally.  
“Not anymore,” Watari repeats. “This happened years ago.”  
“So pai-” the detective chokes out, “painful.”  
“Look at me, L,” his elder says warmly. “Look up at me. I am here for you.”  
“N-no, it’s-” a discordant keening interrupts the younger man.  
“You and I are the only ones here. Whatever and whoever else you see is a fabrication - you are having another flashback.”  
“A-another?” At this miserable moment, that term - ‘flashback’ - seems foreign to L.  
“Yes,” Watari confirms, “another flashback, that’s all. This is in your past.”  
“M-my...? N-” L’s erratic breath cuts him off this time. “No, it...I-”  
“This happened years ago,” his handler repeats. “Look at me, L.”  
Slowly, but surely, those larmoyant, deep grey eyes look up.  
“You are not a teenager anymore,” Watari reminds his younger, trying his hardest to extract him from his mental prison.  
“What?” L replies breathily. “I’m seventeen.”  
“Not anymore.”  
“What?” he repeats in despair.  
“Tell me what you see, L,” his handler entreats, keeping himself mostly calm.  
“I don’t...” the detective pants, eyes darting around, “...I don’t know,” he sobs.  
“Look to your right,” Watari orders. “Do you see the bath?”  
“Y-yes,” L confirms as he obliges.  
“And the sink to your left?”  
“Yes.”  
“You are safe here, alright?” his handler promises. “This building is secure. Nobody can harm you.”  
L nods frenziedly as he lets out another throttled sob, violent quivers sheathing his frame.  
“You are not in pain anymore,” Watari reiterates. “This is just a flashback. Do you understand?”  
“Just a flashback,” L parrots, trying to take a deep breath. “Not happening anymore.”  
“Not happening anymore,” the older man confirms with an amiable nod.  
Stilling slightly, L continues in earnest his attempt to slow his turbulent breathing. The anguish that transpierces through every nerve within his damaged body ever so slightly abates as his wide, tearful eyes flit hither and yon, finally making sense of their true environment. He is in Japan right now. He is safe. Again, he fixes his gaze upon Watari, whose cordial, fatherly smile helps to calm him further. _Not happening anymore_, he reminds himself, _it happened almost eight years ago_. A mere flashback. He has to regain control. Just to reassure himself, he raises an arm and paws at his pale visage. When he pulls them away, he's relieved to find his trembling fingers free of blood. Heaving a reassured sigh, he repeats this movement, and, this time, checks under his fringe. What meets his fingertips are injuries long since cicatrised.

_It’s not happening anymore_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: depiction of physical and sexual assault. It's not particularly graphic, in fact it's very metaphorical, but it's a depiction nonetheless. If you think this might upset/trigger you, I'd advise you to stop reading at the scene where L is staring into the mirror.
> 
> Now that that's been said...
> 
> OH MY GOD, I WAS SO NERVOUS TO RELEASE THIS CHAPTER! L's past is something I've been secretive about, so I don't really know how you lovely folks are going to react to this. I want to clarify that though his trauma explains a lot of his prior actions towards Light and his various other victims, it does not excuse them. He still needs to be held accountable for all he's done. Things are a bit slow-paced right now, I know, my writing is incredibly prolix and dialogue-heavy, but they will speed up soon. I haven't forgotten about Matsuda, either! He'll appear in the next chapter. We're nearing 100k words, as well...that's mad to me. To everyone who has read this far, thank you so much! I'm aiming to finish this in 45 (or less) chapters, and I've been working on making my writing a little more laconic. The original plan was 30 chapters, but we divert from canon at a certain point so that's looking less and less likely. Your patience is all I request. I will get this fic done, no matter how long it takes. I hope at least some of you will stick around until that day.
> 
> Also, believe me when I say that, regarding L, this is only the tip of the iceberg...
> 
> PS: I did decide to go back and improve the earlier chapters (@past me, why are they so short and inconsequential?). Very little has been changed, so you needn't worry about the plot changing massively. Anyways, I'll stop rambling now. Thank you all again for reading.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's 2 days late, sue me. I had a bit of ye olde writer's block.
> 
> (That's my default excuse for being a lazy cow at this point, isn't it?)
> 
> **!!! YOUR TRIGGER WARNING IS IN THE ENDNOTES !!!**

With the end of one of his lily-white sleeves, L timidly dabs at the corners of his misty charcoal eyes. Inside his mind, one concise phrase plays on repeat: _it’s not happening anymore_.

“Look at me, L,” Watari urges.  
L obliges without cavil. By now, he has calmed, insomuch that he's stopped weeping.  
“You are not a failure for relapsing,” the older man croons. “You have not lost control.”  
Behind his shivering lips, L holds his tongue. He refutes both of those statements, yet vows not to show this.  
“Do you want to talk to someone?” Watari poses another question.  
“No,” the detective replies in an indistinct voice.  
“Why ever not?”  
“I’ve been alright for a while now. I haven’t had a flashback like that in...” L recollects, “...almost a year,” he continues. “Not since B died.”

For a little while, Watari goes quiet, recalling the recent past. Following B’s death, L underwent a dramatic change in personality. At first, he was depressed, to the extent that most days, he couldn’t even drag himself out of bed. Although, he wasn’t sleeping. The nightmares prevented that. And then, the flashbacks started again. Day in, day out, crippling him. Watari feared they would never stop. Though in due course, they did, and the L that emerged from them was...different - much more vindictive, much more tenacious, much more unfeeling, and suddenly _obsessed_ with the Kira case.

“What triggered this one?” Watari questions.  
“I’ve been feeling guilty,” L reveals.  
“Guilty about what?”  
“About...what I’m doing to Light,” he mumbles, letting his inattentive, tearful gaze tumble.  
“As you should,” Watari mutters.  
“You know what guilt does to me!” the detective laments as a teardrop streams down his cheek.  
“I know,” his handler continues in his attempt to pacify him, “I know. But what happened to you was not your fault, no matter what you have been led to believe. I only wish I had found out sooner.”

L snickers, grinning even through his tears. There's still so much Watari doesn’t know, so much L never told and never will tell him. He found out when one of the younger orphans found a worked-over, weltering teenage boy recumbent on a bathroom floor, beneath a shattered mirror.

By then, L’s attacker was nowhere to be found. They evaded capture for several years.

_“Mr Wammy!” A young girl’s shrill shriek caught Quillish’s ear as he made his way to the library. “Mr Wammy, please, help!”  
The man stopped in his tracks, turning to meet her horror-filled mantis-green eyes. “Has something happened, E?”  
“It’s L!” she revealed, watching Quillish’s features distort. “I think he’s been assaulted.”  
“Where is he?” Quillish inquired urgently.  
“The uppermost boys’ bathroom,” E disclosed, taking to her heels. “H found him and told me to get you.”  
Without hesitation, the older man followed, racked with worry. “What do you mean by ‘assaulted’? Is he badly hurt?”  
“I mean physically assaulted!” E exclaimed, attracting the curious gazes of her eavesdropping peers. “He’s bleeding.”  
“Keep your voice down,” Quillish cautioned, not wanting the little ones to overhear. “Where from? Is he conscious?” he asked quietly.  
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him,” E said breathlessly, taking to the marble staircase. “His eyes were open, so I think he’s conscious.”  
“E?” Quillish stopped her halfway up the stairs with a hand upon her shoulder. “I want you to retrieve my medical supplies from my office. Here,” he reached into his pocket, “take the key. Roger will tell you where they are if you cannot find them, alright?”  
The shaken, mousy-haired teenager nodded, taking the key into her grasp. “Got that.”  
“Thank you, E. Now, be quick!” the older man advised, taking flight once again.  
“Will be!” she shouted back as they went their separate ways._

_“Mr Wammy will be here soon,” H maffled to the teenager he knelt beside. “He’ll help.”  
L said nothing in reply. His absent eyes merely stared ahead.  
“You’ll be alright,” the affrighted eleven-year-old added. “Just hang on. I promise you’ll be okay.”  
A sudden gasp coming from behind startled the blond child. He whipped his head around, only to find himself gazing upon an appalled Mr Wammy._

_Quillish didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this._

_E wasn’t exaggerating when she used the term ‘assaulted’. Incarnadine droplets of splattered liquid besmirched the pristine white tiles of the floor, together with several shards of reflective material. The older man surmised that those shards were the remains of what once was the bathroom mirror. He inspected further, taking a step forward, to find most of those splinters had fallen into one of the sinks directly below the smashed elongated looking glass._

_A fully-clad, yet bedraggled, L lay curled up on his left side, embracing himself. Half-dried blood that had evidently poured out from his bruised nose was smeared across his lips and philtrum._

_That vacant stare of his revealed everything. He already looked half-gone._

_The lacerations adorning his forehead and left cheek were the most grisly, apparent injuries. The blood fetched from those incisions, which by then coated almost the entirety of his face's left side, looked to be flowing still. In his cheek, one single metallic shard remained embedded within the flesh._

_There was no way any of those wounds could have ever been self-inflicted._

_“Oh, L!” Quillish blurted out under his breath, drawing nearer. “H, I am so sorry you had to see this,” he said to the nervous child, assuming a kneeling position. “Are you alright?”  
“Yes,” the wide-eyed boy affirmed.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Positive.” H nodded. “I was used to seeing these types of things before I came here, anyway...”_

_With that last sentence, Quillish swore he felt his heart crack. He made a mental note to call in the counsellor later._

_“Can you do me a favour, H?” he continued in a softer voice.  
“Alright.”  
“Could you guard the door until E arrives? I sent her to fetch my medical supplies; she shan’t be long.”  
“Of course,” the boy acceded, rising to his feet.  
“Thank you ever so much. I am so sorry,” Quillish repeated with a downcast expression.  
The curly-haired child fell silent. And then, he hung his head, gave a subdued nod, and mouthed something indiscernible before hastily departing. The oldest of the three waited until H vacated the room before fretfully uttering:  
“Can you hear me, L?”  
There came no response. Heavy breaths were the only sounds leaving the teenager’s scarlet-stained, quivering lips. Quillish brought an equally shaky hand to his adoptee’s forehead, then brushed back his ruffled forelocks to reveal the full extent of his trauma._

_Once more, the older man gasped._

_The cut upon L’s left cheek seemed minor and unlikely to trouble him. Au contraire, the gashes upon his brow were much nastier. Just from taking a glimpse at them, Quillish could tell they would leave permanent scars, so he speedily divested himself of his blazer and tore off part of his white sleeve to staunch the wounds._

_“L, I need you to talk to me,” he said, scarcely managing to keep his voice steady. “One word is all I require.”  
“...Sorry,” L replied hardly audibly after a short delay.  
“Why are you apologising‽ This is not your fault! Oh, Lord, how did this happen?”  
“Don’t go,” was the distrait teenager’s only reply.  
“I will never leave you, L,” Quillish muttered. “For as long as I live, I will be by your side. I promise.”  
“H-help me, please...” the despairing boy whispered, finally looking up at his guardian.  
“Help is on its way. E is fetching my equipment. She won't be long.”  
“Hurts.”  
“I know.” Tears stung the older man’s narrowed eyes. “You poor, poor soul. Where else are you hurt?”  
“Elsewhere, I’m only bruised,” L lied, starting to speak clearer. “You needn’t...worry too much.”  
“I shall have to examine your injuries.”  
“They’re minor,” he insisted. “You don’t need to.”  
“What happened‽”  
“Got battered, didn’t I?”  
“How can you say that so casua-” Quillish cut himself off. All of a sudden, he had an epiphany. “Oh, my poor boy,” he sobbed, cradling the back of L’s head with his free hand. The boy winced at the undesired contact, clenching his teeth. “Have you hurt your head?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I apologise,” Quillish said as he pulled away his hand. As soon as he caught sight of his fingertips, he took in yet another sharp breath.  
“...Bleeding?” L inquired charily.  
“Afraid so,” his elder replied, then took a moment to compose himself. “I need you to sit up for me.”  
The teenager let out a muted sound of disapproval. Natheless, he attempted to follow the doctor’s orders. With his guardian’s help, he dragged himself upright. With this change in position came a sudden, sanguinary pain that monstrously speared through his lower half. That intolerable pain was a remindful ache, the kind of scouring pang that made his face screw up.  
“No,” L uttered suddenly, doubling over, breaking Quillish's grip and letting the soaked fabric fall, “I can’t,” he protested as he sunk to the bloodstained floor, twisting himself into the fetal position.  
“Why must you lie to me?” the older man queried as he grabbed the cloth and continued staunching the cuts.  
“What?”  
“You told me you weren't hurt anywhere else,” Quillish harked back to L’s earlier statement.  
“It’s just my stomach. I’m only bruised.”  
“Let me see.”  
“No.”  
“Your injuries need to be treated, L. Let me see them.”  
“...It’s just a few bruises.”  
“Still, I need to see.”  
The trepidatious teenager silently gazed up at his guardian. When it became apparent that L would not willingly open up, Quillish took matters into his own gentle hands and began to fumble with the hem of L’s light grey hoodie. The neurotic boy immediately objected, pushing the fabric back down.  
“I am not going to hurt you, L,” Quillish cooed. “All I want is to help. But first, I need to know if I am capable of doing so.”  
“Please, don’t,” L murmured as his breathing accelerated.  
“I only want to help.”  
“No!” L squirmed away as his elder made another attempt to displace his upper garments, again opening his wounds. Though the movements sent more painful jolts through his maltreated body, he stifled unprompted whimpers behind clenched teeth and pursed lips, knowing he simply couldn’t apprise anyone of what had been transpiring over the past two years. Bewraying his secrets would only make things worse.  
“Let me see, L,” Quillish said forcefully. “You needn’t be frightened; I’m a doctor.”  
“N-no, please don’t do this!” L begged, looking half-crazed as he struggled against the hands groping at his clothing’s hems._

_Of course, the incapacitated teenager was incapable of overpowering his elder. At last, his hoodie and t-shirt slipped up, exposing his abdomen._

_Immediately, discernible disgust disfigured Quillish’s lineaments._

_A mottled constellation of bruises ranging from pale yellow to blackish in colour tarnished L’s fair skin. Bruises most certainly induced by repeated blunt-force and most certainly induced by another party. Wounds of various ages._

_“Oh, L...” Quillish began, watching as his adoptee hurriedly covered himself back up, “why did you not tell me?”_

_Within an instant, the teenager’s features contorted themselves into a most alarmed expression._

_That verklempt look, paired with L’s silence, more or less confirmed Quillish’s suspicions._

As L’s laughter comes to a halt, a frown appears upon his face. He hasn’t wept like this for a long time, for he deems crying utterly pointless. Dwelling over his problems has never gotten him anywhere. He hasn’t felt like this for a long time, for emotions are better off quelled. Apathy keeps him safe.  
“Tari?” he mutters, wiping his eyes.  
“Yes?”  
“I’m not alright,” he confesses.  
“I know. And that is okay,” Watari says softly. “You have to deal with these feelings _healthily_.”  
“I’m trying,” L all but whines, biting his lip in an attempt to bridle the pathetic sounds escaping him together with crystalline tears.  
“Hurting other people is not an acceptable coping mechanism,” Watari sighs. “How many times have I told you this?”  
“He’s a mass murderer,” the detective sibilates. “How many people has he hurt, do you think? What I’m doing is minuscule in comparison to his iniquities.”  
“You cannot say that with certainty,” the older man points out. “He is innocent until proven otherwise, so watch your words.”  
“I just...” L exclaims in frustration, “...I’m so fucking tired of this.”  
“Have you burnt yourself out?” Watari questions with a sympathetic expression.  
“I’m sweating blood! Got no motivation.”  
“Let yourself rest, if only for a short while,” he suggests. “I fear you will work yourself to death at this rate.”  
“I’m…not right in the head, am I?”  
“Don't think that way, please,” he requests vehemently. “Your trauma does not define you.”  
“Stop trying to placate me,” L spits acrimoniously. “What kind of stable person does the things I do!? I lie. I deceive. I coerce. I’m a complete control freak, and I can’t even take no for an answer half the time!”  
“You _need_ to talk to someone,” Watari says, with the pangs of heartache shooting through his chest.  
“I tried!” L claims with tears scalding his orbs. “You know damn well I tried. And when no one could help me, I was forced to help myself.”  
“You are not beyond repair. Trust me, L.”  
“I do trust you. You’re the only person I can trust.”  
“You know I love you, right?” Watari asks, so sincere yet so conflicted.  
“I love you too,” L sobs. He cannot seem to recall the last time he uttered those three words. “Stay with me, please. Just for the rest of the day,” he requests, frantically swiping at his eyes with his sleeve.  
“I will be here as long as you need me to be,” Watari agrees.  
“Thank you,” L says in an undertone. He clears his throat, then wipes away the last of his tears. _Crying is pointless_. “You’d best go analyse that blood whilst it’s still viable. I think I’ll be alright on my own for a little while,” he adds with fabricated impassivity.  
“Are you sure?”  
“I’m certain.”

For a moment, Watari vacillates. Honestly, he fears he may be in over his head.

“Ring me if you need anything, alright?” he says as he stands. “I shouldn’t be too long.”  
“I need a drink.”  
“L!” his elder exclaims, for he was under the impression that L gave up drinking years ago, after...the _incident_.  
The detective looks up with his best puppy-dog eyes. “Just one?”  
“You simply cannot fall back into old habits! Have you any idea how much harm-”  
“Pack it in! Don’t be so sanctimonious. I only want one,” he interrupts with apparent asperity. “I won’t let myself lose control again. Please?” he entreats with spurious guilelessness.  
“...Just the one, okay?”  
“Perfect,” he derides, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Get me something strong.”

The detective stares his elder down with a minacious look, the one he affects when he wants things his way. Watari sighs once again, bedevilled by the apparent re-emergence of his adoptee’s neuroticism.

He wishes he could alter the course of history. L didn’t deserve what he went through; he was but a child.

Downhearted, Watari makes his exit, heading back into the bedroom to retrieve the samples collected from his lonesome patient. At present, his top priority is extracting Light from this somnolent state so they can discuss treatment options.

As his handler takes his leave, L glances at the tiled floor, trying, in downright desperation, to recover from his most recent flare-up. The guilt ingrained within besieges his very being, numbing his thoughts and smothering him. Thusly, he reconciles himself to idling away in this sempiternal sensation, unable to face his folly.

He loses track of time long before Watari’s return, so absorbed in embryonic hypotheses he scarcely notices the man quizzically calling out his name.  
“L?”  
The distracted detective looks up from the knees he's pulled against his torso. A partially-filled glass of coppery liquid in Watari’s hold abruptly seizes his undivided attention. At once, he stands, failing to anticipate the vertiginous waves that wash over him and send him reeling. Stunned, he extends an arm and grabs onto the bathroom sink to steady himself.  
“Are you alright?” his elder asks, troubled by the look of astonishment in those eyes.  
“Just a bit lightheaded,” the detective replies, voluntarily blinking.  
“You haven’t eaten, have you?”  
“Not since last night,” he confirms, eagerly snatching the inebriating beverage from his elder’s hand.

With haste, he takes an ample swig. Instantly, the pungent flavour of alcohol storming his tastebuds takes him aback, misshaping his features. He’d forgotten how this felt. He’d forgotten just how ironically mitigating and consoling these poisonous substances can be. Delaying consumption no longer, he lets the liquid run down his parched throat, savouring the mellowing, fruity aftertaste.

Brandy. Definitely brandy. Though he’d prefer something harder, he’ll settle for this.

“You shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach,” Watari tuts.  
“I’ll be fine,” L indifferently dismisses valid concerns.  
“Would you like me to fetch you something?”  
“I’ve got no appetite,” he divulges, then takes a sip of his beverage.  
“Still, you need to eat. Do you want some soup?”  
“Not right now. Um, about Light’s blood...?”  
“Well…” the doctor wavers. Dare he even attempt this?  
“What?” L takes another swig in pursuit of the lovely muzzy sensation he misses so much.  
“Slow down,” Watari warns. “That drink is meant to last you. As I was trying to say, I am afraid that abnormalities have been detected,” he says as convincingly as possible.  
“Is that so?” L inquires doubtfully, licking his lips free of spirit. “What illness have you found evidence of, then?”  
“I-I cannot say. I-”  
“Perhaps I may be able to,” he interrupts. “Could I see the results?”  
“Absolutely not! These are confidential-”  
“Don’t lie to me!” L snaps as he takes a step forward, startling his handler. “Do the promises we made mean nothing to you?” he asks as he glares. “Don’t make me relinquish my trust.”  
“I want to admit him to a hospital,” the older man says in despair, admitting to his sin.  
“I don’t care what you want,” his despotic adoptee retaliates. “We'll do this my way. You know exactly what I’ll reveal if you dare get anyone else involved.”  
“It could be very dangerous to keep him here,” Watari expresses. “Life-threatening, even! We know not how long this will last. He may develop a blood clot, muscle contractures, or bedsores, not to mention severe dehydration!”  
“We can arrange a rendezvous for the drug you need to treat him by tomorrow,” L asserts, heedless to his handler’s hortatory implorations. “Trust me. If he doesn’t improve by Saturday morning, only then will we seek assistance elsewhere. He should be fine for a day or so; I fed him at...around nine PM last night.”  
“Did he drink anything?”  
“Water,” he replies, hungrily eyeballing the beverage in his grasp. _Make it last_.  
“With electrolyte powder?”  
“Yes.”  
“And he took his pills?”  
“Indeed, he did.”  
“...Alright,” Watari hesitantly concedes defeat. “I agree to your conditions, for now,” he says as if he has any real choice in the matter. He knows it's wise to abide by L if he wants to keep the orphans back home safe and sound.  
“For now?” L scoffs.  
“If his condition worsens, I will contact emergency services. We are walking a very fine line.”  
“Alright,” he warps his supercilious expression into one more dispassionate, “I take no issue with that. But good luck obtaining his father’s consent.”  
“Speaking of his father, we need to have a word with that man.”  
“Don’t bother.” L takes yet another sip. “You’ll only make things worse,” he says as he saunters into the bedroom.  
“I cannot stand for what he said,” his handler grumbles, in pursuit.  
“It’s not your place to get involved.” The detective takes his laptop into his free hand, then sets his glass down onto his bedside cabinet.  
“Perhaps not,” Watari sighs. “But that does not stop me wanting to.”  
“Seriously,” L cautions, taking a seat upon the bed, “just leave him be. You’re not going to change the way he thinks; believe me,” he continues as he starts up his laptop.  
“For the foreseeable future, I would like to keep him at arm’s length. I do not want him standing in the way of his son’s recovery.”  
“Fine by me,” the detective says as he types. “But this kid is hard work, you know. Anxiolytics and a few CBT sessions aren’t going to fix him.”  
“Fortunately for him, I am in contact with some very patient professionals,” Watari reveals.  
L merely glowers in response. He thinks it unlikely that Light will cooperate with these supposed professionals, though knows there’s no point in vocalising these doubts. As he averts his gaze and goes back to typing, he catches Watari ambling over to his patient out of the corner of his eye. Yet, he pays no mind to that happening beside him, for he cannot bring himself to look at that hebetudinous boy.  
“...Would you be comfortable assisting the Task Force in our absence?” L queries after a short while in a low, pensive voice.  
“To the best of my abilities, of course.”  
“Thank you. Really, thank you,” he gulps, swallowing back tears. “For everything you’ve done for me, I mean.”  
“L, I…” Watari trails off, taken aback. _Why is he bringing this up now_?  
“I don’t think I could’ve made it this far without you,” L admits. His handler can tell that behind his recouped affectation, he is but a bundle of nerves. Just like he was as a child. “Oh, I’m getting sentimental, aren’t I? Sorry.”  
“_Feeling_ is not a sin,” his elder gently reminds him. “Stop-”  
“Shut-” the irritable detective discourteously interposes, “be quiet,” he corrects himself. “I need to talk to the Task Force.”  
Without resistance, Watari acquiesces. He watches on, silently, as L’s eyes flit back towards his laptop. Those willowy fingers type for another minute or so, then a sepulchral-sounding voice emanates from the laptop’s speakers.  
_“Oh,”_ Matsuda looks up at the cloister black ‘L’ portrayed on the screen overhead, _“it’s Ryuzaki-san.”_  
“Good morning,” L greets, confounded by Matsuda’s bleak tone. “Is Aizawa-san not with you three?”  
_“He hasn’t shown up yet,”_ Mogi attests.  
“I see,” L hums. “Yagami-san?” he calls out, trying not to snarl that name.  
_“Yes?”_ Souichirou responds apace.  
“Light-kun has agreed to your conditions,” L lies. “He will be granted furlough for treatment. As such, I may not be able to assist with the investigation in person for quite some time. It depends on what Light-kun finds most comfortable since I do not plan on releasing him from surveillance any time soon. I’ll do as much as I can remotely, though, needless to say, there will be restrictions, so Watari shall assist you in my stead.”  
_“Of course. Thank you for the update,”_ the chief says tonelessly.

A few noiseless seconds pass. L wonders if he’s the only one who senses rancour in the air.

_“Would you like me to pass this information on to Aizawa-san, or...?”_ Mogi asks.  
“That would be lovely, thank you,” L answers without thinking. Promptly, he scolds himself for breaking character. That is _not_ something Ryuzaki would say. “...I’m afraid I haven’t much more time,” he says just to break the awkward silence, flattening his intonation. “Light-kun requires my aid.”

He winces at his own words. That didn’t sound natural.

“As I said, I will assist with the investigation remotely, at least for the foreseeable future,” he continues. “Do not hesitate to contact Watari or me if need be. Now, please, excuse me.”  
He receives no response. For a moment, Matsuda looks as though he’s going to say something, but ends up holding back. With that, L breaks the communication channel. Today seems to be one odd occurrence after the other.  
“Is it just me or do things seem off?” he asks his handler, who kneels with one hand wrapped around Light’s wrist and the other pressed against his forehead.  
“Definitely not just you,” Watari rejoins.  
“They didn’t even ask about our absence,” L muses, averting his eyes from his companions when the compunction he feels threatens to fetch more tears. “They barely even spoke. I suppose it comes as no surprise, though, after yesterday’s events,” he thinks out loud. “What are you doing, anyway?”  
“His vitals must be checked regularly,” the doctor says, withdrawing his hands. “If he develops a fever or tachycardia, that may be a sign of something more dangerous. Keep in mind this is only _suspected_ catatonia. If he...”

Watari’s didactic monologue fades into background noise as L tunes himself out. Taking no notice of what’s being said, he reaches for the drink atop his nightstand. Rubbing his rest-deprived eyes, he takes yet another sip of brandy.

All he wants is for these hapless feelings to go away.

As he awakes, the close sound of melancholic snivelling catches Light’s ear.

His lustreless eyes open glacially. All that meets them is blackness. Emetic consternation lurches inside, twisting his empty stomach, and this unending caliginosity only seems to amplify that dreadful sensation.

L is crying, he realises. Into his shoulder. Why is L crying?

There are arms around his waist, he notices. Gracile arms folded around his waist and a heaving chest pressed against his back lock him in a proprietorial embrace. Must be L’s, for who else would they belong to? The enfettered pair seem to be alone now. Watari must have left whilst Light was asleep. Well, Light _thinks_ he dozed off during the gloaming. Then again, his memory isn’t exactly stellar at present, is it? The outline of distant objects - the most prominent of which seems to be his wardrobe - is slowly becoming evident as his eyes adjust to the lighting. He wonders, very briefly, how late it is, before his train of thought abandons him.

“_I’m sorry_.”

Light recognises the language L whispers in as English.

“I’m so sorry,” the detective sobs ruefully as his bitter teardrops spill onto the goosebumped skin of his unstirring companion’s neck.

_Don’t apologise_, Light says in his mind before it goes blank. The words don’t pass his lips. They can’t pass his lips. Discarnate serpents coil around his desiccated throat and each extremity, strangling every word and preventing every movement. No longer can he contend with his pathological demons. They’ve gotten too powerful. Or perhaps he has gotten weaker?

_You’ve always been this weak_, his impalpable confidant reminds him. These days, it seems louder than it used to be, and more wrathful. Yet, he understands that it knows best. It always has, for it is apart of the side he deems more logical than the other.

“I-I never,” L stutters, “I never intended to cause this.”

Light can comprehend these foreign words, though no longer does he entertain a response. The nightmarish emotions birling inside have overwhelmed him, they’ve shrunk him down to naught but a hollowed-out shell, static and beyond hope. He’s past his limit.

“I’m sorry,” L apologises in muted tones. “_I’m so sorry_,” he repeats, this time in Light’s native tongue. “T-this must be hell,” he continues, abandoning English.

What an understatement. Truly, Hell itself cannot even begin to compare to the deleterious abyss currently enshrouding Light.

“Tomorrow, Watari will give you medicine, once he has it. It’s just an injection, okay? Don’t be frightened; it’ll make you…better,” L chokes out, reluctant to use that last word.

Light doesn’t think medicine will help, for he is beyond saving. Nothing can allay this immutable suffering.

“I shouldn’t…” his guilt-ridden elder carelessly opens his heart, “I shouldn’t have been so…” he struggles to find a suitable phrase, “..._inhuman_,” he ends up sputtering out. “I didn’t realise you were so delicate.”

Hyena-like cackles fill Light’s devastated head. _Delicate?_, that ever-extant voice chides. _‘Feeble’ is what he really means._

“I’m so sorry,” L repeats, “but I don’t expect you to forgive me. In fact, you shouldn’t forgive me. I’ve been...so awful to you, I’ve been-” a woeful cry interrupts his frenetic apologies, “I’ve been unscrupulous, and I’ve been…_perverted_, and I’ve been sadistic, and-” before he can get it out in full, sobs subdue his sentence.

This is the second time L has cried today. Light heard him weep whilst they were unchained. In fact, it was more than weeping - he screamed bloody murder and scared Light and, from the look on his face, Watari, too, half to death. The fear those anguished cries instilled within the listless brunet hasn’t yet subsided. In sooth, he fears it never will. Every monstrous emotion begotten over the past day or so is yet to diminish in its intensity, and how that tortures him so.

“Oh, this is all my fault,” L blubbers. “I just…” he heaves a sigh, “I didn’t think things would progress this far. I thought you’d…”

Again, his words whittle down into mere sobs and snivels.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore, Light,” he confesses after a short while. “But I promise that from now on, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Light knows not if he believes this. Regardless, has he any reason not to? Even if L breaks this promise, Light knows it’ll be his fault for upsetting him, for L only hurts him when he deserves it.

“I hate that I care about you,” L just about snarls, fostering further fear. “I hate so much about this.”

_Hear that? He **hates** you. Why did you ever think he might like you back? Look at yourself. You’re not good enough for him._

“I never wanted this to happen to you. I’m _sorry_,” L repeats before he surrenders himself to this paroxysm of weeping.

Light wants to comfort him. He wants to cuddle him and kiss him and dry his tears, but…

Alas, he’s lost control over his movements.

In the after-hours, Matsuda sits in the main hall and ruminates, staring at his lucent monitor with glassy brown eyes as his face rests against his fist. The chief decided on doing overtime tonight, as Ryuzaki didn’t contribute much - he muttered something about not feeling motivated again - and both Aizawa and Light remained absent. Matsuda insisted on helping, so Souichirou gave him a few foolproof tasks. At present, though, the younger man’s thoughts distract him.

Yesterday, he saw Ryuzaki and Light sitting in each other’s _caress_. Their embrace was intimate, not one that simple friends would share. Ryuzaki even _kissed_ Light! Moreover, Ryuzaki’s posture was normal, and he spoke so casually…

It was like watching a stranger. Who Matsuda saw was _not_ the Ryuzaki he knows.

And Light?

Well, Matsuda hadn’t pinned him down as a cheater. He hadn’t pinned him as gay or bi either, but if he’s confused about his sexuality, that may well have prompted his infidelity. At any rate, this isn’t fair on Misa.

What’s happening between Ryuzaki and Light has to be some sort of liaison. There’s no other explanation Matsuda can procure. They held each other, and Ryuzaki called his companion ‘_Dear_’, then kissed his cheek, and picked him up and carried him…

The fact that Ryuzaki had to carry Light is especially troubling. Indeed, the boy seemed to lose all control over his motor skills. He appeared to lose control over everything, in fact; from what Matsuda saw, it looked like he just shut down when what he felt became too much to bear.

The poor thing. He must be beside himself.

Matsuda doesn’t want to pry, but even he can tell Light needs support. He’s still wondering whether or not he should tell the chief about what he saw. Perhaps once he knows just how distraught his son was following their argument, he’ll see some sense and mend his ways!

_No_, Matsuda promptly dismisses that idea. _I’m being way too optimistic_.

He should discuss this with the paramours in question before spilling his guts in front of anyone else. It’s not too late for that, right?

“Chief?” he says to the man beside him.  
“Yes?” Souichirou responds at once.  
“Is it okay if I take off now? I’ve done everything you told me to.”  
“Of course,” he agrees as he stops typing. “You did well today.”  
“Thanks,” Matsuda says gratefully as he stands. “Don’t overwork yourself, alright?”  
“I’ll try not to,” the chief replies with ample sarcasm. “Goodnight.”  
“Night, Chief.”

As he departs, the young man sighs. He hopes it’s not too late. He doesn’t know how much longer he can let this haunt his thoughts.

Matsuda finds his way to L and Light’s quarters with little difficulty. As he approaches the door, a heavily muffled sound catches his sharp ear. Without preamble, he pushes down the handle.

To his surprise, the room is unlocked.

Leerily, he tip-toes inside, quiet as a mouse as he shuts the door behind him. Blackness benights his vision.

Someone’s sobbing, he realises. Someone is _bawling_.

He gulps. Poor, poor Light is mouldering still. With bated breath, Matsuda feels his way past furniture, making his way over to what looks vaguely like another door. Approaching his destination, he comes to yet another shocking realisation, overhearing a lachrymose voice spluttering an apology: “_I’m so sorry_”.

That’s Ryuzaki’s voice. Light isn’t the one who’s crying.

Matsuda’s eyebrows rise. He reaches out, grasps the door handle, and then…

He freezes. Dare he intrude upon this ominous tête-à-tête?

With an ear pressed against the door, he listens closer. Ryuzaki is _ranting_; he’s saying something about...his behaviour? Though the words are indistinct, Matsuda understands “_perverted_”.

_What’re they talking about_?

Not long passes before he comprehends that this isn’t a tête-à-tête at all. It’s entirely one-sided; not a single word seems to be passing Light’s lips. Just like yesterday.

Suddenly, Matsuda’s heart skips a beat. What if Light hasn’t spoken since then? What if he’s gone mute? Given how disconsolate he seemed, it’s not outlandish to think of. Oh, God, he hopes that’s not the case!

Though Ryuzaki’s utterances are getting quieter, Matsuda can still make out a few words, including…“_from now on, I’m not going to hurt you_”?

His heart drops. Has Ryuzaki been hurting Light? If that’s the case, he _has_ to tell someone about this, some sort of abuse could be occurring! But...is Ryuzaki really that kind of a person?

Though it pains Matsuda to admit this to himself, it seems increasingly plausible. He thought he knew Ryuzaki, but, oh, how wrong he was.

Within another minute, L’s sorrowful soliloquy is overtaken by unforced sobs. He says nothing further. Thus, Matsuda lets go of the handle and pulls away from the panels.

He shan’t intrude, not now. Not whilst Ryuzaki is upset. He doesn’t want to make things worse than they already are - if that’s even possible.

Taking a deep breath, he decides to distance himself. He retraces his steps, fumbling his way through the darkness, careful not to make any loud noises. After what seems like forever, he finds his way back to the entrance. As he exits, he lets the breath escape him.

His heart races still. If Light is being hurt, either physically or emotionally...someone needs to be told. Someone Light is close to and likely to open up to. Now, just _who_ fits that criteria?

Matsuda needs a while to mull over this. He needs sleep, too, his eyes tell him.

As he reluctantly makes his way down to his rooms, he gnaws on his lower lip. Come morning, he needs to have made a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: depictions of injuries caused by interpersonal violence. If this upsets you, just skip the italicised flashback scene.
> 
> I hope y'all don't mind the addition of two little OCs. They won't be prominent characters (unless you want to see more of them?); I just thought the scene needed them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **!!! YOUR TRIGGER WARNING IS IN THE ENDNOTES !!!**
> 
> That's slowly becoming my mantra, eh?

Upon aurora’s approach, L’s bleary eyes flicker shut. Serenity begotten by the scent of Light’s hair, the sound of Light’s breath, and the sensation of Light’s stomach rising and falling as he respires lulls L into slumber. He’s falling into Morpheus’ predacious arms, and he’s falling fast. They’re dragging him deep down into the achromatic demesne of his incubi - a land of malisons and malfeasance littered with the reliquiæ of auld lang syne. Thence, he succumbs to exhaustion, surrendering himself to that cacodæmonic caress.

Suddenly, a brassy sound pierces through his ears. He jolts awake, and his eyes curiously careen, then his breathing hastens, until…

Until he realises it’s just a ringtone.

It’s _Light’s_ ringtone.

Woolly-headed, he expels himself from his dwam, releasing Light from his hold. As he hauls himself upright and wipes away his rheum, he exhales deeply, glancing at his fainéant companion. It woke him, too, from the look of those fluttering eyelids. Posthaste, L retrieves the mobile atop Light’s nightstand, then ganders at the caller ID.

‘_Matsuda Touta_’?

It’s six-fifteen AM. What does he want with Light at this hour?

Charily, L picks up.

“Hello?” he greets huskily.  
_“Ryuzaki-san?”_ Matsuda blurts out. _“Is Light-kun there?”_  
“I am afraid Light-kun is asleep at present,” L lies.  
_“Oh, I see.”_ Matsuda sounds disappointed. _“Can you tell him to give me a call when he’s awake?”_  
“Would you like me to relay something?”  
_“I-I just,”_ he falters, _“I’ve something to ask him, that’s all.”_  
“Which is?”  
_“Um, something private actually, so...”_ he says with a furtive giggle.  
“You can trust me to pass it on. Light-kun and I are very close,” L claims.  
_“I’m sorry, I’d like to speak to him alone,”_ Matsuda apologises.

L’s eyes narrow. _What’s he up to_?

“I see,” he drawls suspiciously. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell Light-kun once he awakens.”  
_“Thanks, Ryuzaki-san. Speak later.”_  
“Goodbye.”  
The phone bleeps to signify the call’s end. This…this _feeling_ rampages within L, bubbling inside his stomach. He knows not its name, but it makes him want to scream from the rooftops that Light is his and only his and no one can interfere with them!

Oh, these flummoxing feelings are _deluging_ him. He wants to drown out his conscience and forget his impropriety; he wants to poison himself until he’s paralytic, and wants bitter bane to bolt through his bloodstream and benumb everything and…

Oh, fuck, this isn’t good. He cannot fall back into his scorned vices’ warm embrace, however enticing it may seem. It’ll only end in tragedy.

And so, he lowers his arm, letting silence deaden his senses as he returns the phone to the nightstand. Then, he plants a hand on Light’s shoulder, pining for a response...

But there’s nothing. Light simply stares ahead, looking more exhausted than ever. Watari should attain the lorazepam later today. L only hopes Light will improve with its administration.

He doesn’t know how he’ll cope if Light’s condition doesn’t ameliorate.

The devitalised brunet stays unspoken as his pulse and his temperature are checked. L detects no abnormalities - but for the bradycardia - so he withdraws his hands within seconds.

That’s when he detects the faint stench of staling piss.

Of course. Yesterday, Watari informed him that, with catatonia, incontinence is a given. Poor sods.

Groggily, L untucks himself, inspecting his ruffled garbs. When he finds them unsullied, he leans against the headboard and draws up his knees. Once more, he sighs, then reaches out to run his fingers through dusky locks.  
“What are we, Light?” he asks, ruminating.  
Predictably, no answer comes.

When Watari arrives with the remedy, midday has passed. Earlier, he’d popped in to make sure everything was alright, but L sent him away by instructing him to make breakfast. Of course, Light couldn’t consume, but L managed, albeit with difficulty, a cup of tea and a syrup-laden pancake. As Watari strolls into the bedroom (they’d agreed on leaving the doors unlocked last night, lest things go awry), L’s attention is pulled away from his laptop’s screen and towards the capped syringe his assistant holds.  
“Is that it?” the detective asks under his breath.  
“Speak up, please,” Watari instructs, kneeling before his patient.  
“I take it this is the cure?” L complies.  
“Indeed,” his handler mutters. “You are sure this is safe?”  
“Don’t be so paranoid,” L says jadedly. “We know where it came from.”  
“Watch closely for the emergence of any strange symptoms,” Watari enjoins, searching for a vein in Light's outstretched arm. “If even the slightest aberrancy is detected, we’re admitting him to a hospital.”  
“I understand,” the detective flouts. “Is that all you’re giving him?” He watches Watari uncapping the syringe, revealing the narrow needle.  
“I want him on the lowest possible dose.” The doctor begins to inject the diluted drug into the median cubital vein. L averts his gaze the instant that sharpened metal touches Light’s skin. “Benzodiazepines are incredibly addictive, and higher doses can bring about..._undesirable_ side effects,” he says as if L doesn’t already know.  
“You said he should respond within a few hours, right?” L questions shakily.  
“Right.” The needle is withdrawn, then recapped. “I need to dispose of my sharps. What time is it?”  
“Three forty-two,” the younger man ascertains with a glance at his laptop.  
“If there has been no response three hours from now, he will need another dose. If my assistance is required downstairs, will you keep me updated?”  
“Sure.”  
“Thank you. Keep an eye on him. I should be back shortly.”

True to his word, Watari returns within the half-hour.  
“Any change?” he asks as he walks in.  
“Hm? What?” L questions back, rubbing his eyes.  
“Is he any better?” his handler repeats.  
“No,” he responds, shooting his younger a glance. Light is as still as ever.

For a moment, things go quiet. Watari's brow furrows.

“...Get some sleep, L,” he says at last.  
“I’m fine,” L counters.  
“Are you hungry yet?”  
“No.”

Watari frowns, approaching his adoptee.

“Why are you not taking care of yourself?” he asks softly.  
“...I just feel…_so_ guilty,” L admits after some consideration. “I...don’t think I’ll be able to forgive myself if he turns out innocent.”  
“You and I both know this is more than guilt.”

L gulps. His steady respiration is so brazenly disrupted.

“Bad...memories are returning,” he reluctantly divulges. “I’m anxious again, and...in so much pain. Physical and emotional,” though he waters down the truth, his eyes still well up.  
“You ought to talk to someone,” Watari urges, watching L bite his lip.  
“They can’t help,” L whispers as a tear rolls down his cheek.  
“L…”  
Watari doesn’t notice his words trailing away. He sacrificed so much to help L; they got diagnoses and countless medications and therapist upon therapist, but almost as soon as that boy hit adulthood, he packed his bags, clammed up, and shut everyone out, for he found...a new kind of therapy.  
“Can I take your hand?” Watari queries eventually.  
His weeping adoptee nods, letting him enclasp a cold palm.  
“I don’t want to crack up again.” The detective’s voice breaks. “I want to help Light, but how can I if I’m not all there myself?”  
“We will figure something out. He will get better, believe me,” Watari soothes.  
“I’m protective of him,” L blurts out.  
“Oh?”  
“I don’t know why.” He wipes away tears. “I shouldn’t be. Oh, I shouldn’t be crying, either.”  
“Stop punishing yourself for having feelings,” his elder coos.  
“No, really,” L sniffs, blinking away the rest of his lachrymal secretions as he takes back his hand, “I need to stop. When will he improve?” he inquires, glancing at the stagnant brunet.  
“Give it until quarter to seven. Ring me if there has been no change by then.”  
“And...if this medication doesn’t work?”  
“Electroconvulsive therapy,” Watari rejoins bluntly. L shudders.  
“That’s not ideal,” the detective mumbles.

Soporific silence numbs the surroundings. L stares at his laptop, whose screen has, by now, dimmed to pitch-black. He cannot focus on anything but his fears. He fears he won’t recover from this relapse, and that saps his willpower bit by bit. He fears Light won’t wake from his stupor, and that scares him witless. His unpolluted mind offers no shelter from the frigid, torrenting rain that engulfs him; though he ferociously fights against the voracious mire he worries he’s not strong enough to resist its pull for much longer.

“I have been meaning to tell you something,” Watari pipes up.  
“Hm?” L lazily glances at him.  
“Matsuda-san was in your sitting room last night. I saw him when I was reviewing the footage this morning.”  
“Is that why he’s been blowing Light’s phone up!?” L exclaims as his half-lidded eyes shoot open. “What was he doing? I didn’t hear him knock.”  
“Because he never did. He barged in, fumbled his way past your furniture, then held an ear to your bedroom door,” his handler delineates.  
“What?” L cocks his head.  
“...I think he saw you embracing Yagami-kun the morning he rowed with the chief,” Watari says after taking a deep breath. “He seemed to be watching from behind a corner.”  
“_Shit_-”  
“Language,” he warns.  
“Sorry. How much do you think he knows?” L asks urgently.  
“I cannot say. Though these walls are soundproofed,” he makes a vague gesture towards the circumjacent room dividers, “the door can only stifle so much.”  
“Fuck,” the detective swears unwittingly.  
“Mind your mouth.” Watari scowls.  
“I know, I know.” L rolls his eyes. Wammy’s House never could educate him on etiquette. “Listen,” he instructs, lowering his voice, “I don’t know how much he’s seen nor how much he’s heard, but I said some...worrying things last night. I want you to use any means necessary to keep him quiet and eliminate any qualms he may have, okay?”  
“Understood.” Watari bows his head.  
“I mean it. Any means necessary. I don’t want him blabbing, for Light’s sake.”  
“Understood,” he repeats, sighing in dismay.  
“If he asks about Light, make excuses because God knows I’m running out of them,” L maunders. “He’s called so many times today,” he practically whines.  
As if on cue, Watari’s phone starts ringing. The older man’s eyebrows raise, then he hurriedly extracts his mobile from his trouser pocket.  
“Hello?” he greets the caller in Japanese.  
L recognises that the voice replying belongs to a male, though he’s too far away from the phone, and too overtired, to discern anything further.  
“Yes,” is Watari’s next utterance. “...Understood,” he says again after a short silence. “Of course. I shall be with you promptly,” he declares before lowering the device and ending the call.  
“...Who was that?” L questions.  
“Mogi-san. They need me downstairs.”  
“Oh,” he breathes. “No Aizawa?”  
“Not yet, it seems.”  
“I see. If he doesn’t return by Monday, chase him up.”  
“At your behest,” Watari replies wryly.  
“Alright. I won’t keep you any longer, then.”  
“I apologise.”  
“You needn’t. Go do what you need to. I’ll take care of Light.”  
“Are you going to be alright?”  
“If I’m not, I’ll cope. Don’t worry about me, please,” L all but begs. He’s not an invalid.  
“Quarter to seven, remember?” Watari reminds him.  
“Quarter to seven,” L parrots.  
“If he improves before then, you will let me know. Do you remember what I said the first thing you need to do is?”  
“Give him water,” he recalls.  
“Right. If you need anything, give me a bell.”  
“Will do.”  
“See you soon,” his handler bids farewell as he walks away.  
“_Adieu_,” L replies drowsily, turning his attention towards his laptop.  
He’s not sure if he manages to push the power button before Morpheus rudely reclaims him.

_Hands._

_Deceptively soft hands roam his exposed figure, violating him with feathery, faltering touches. Their owner takes time, trailing their digits across his bitten torso and bruised thighs, tampering with his sanity. He tries to flee, but his wrists are instantaneously pinned behind his head, held down with a grip tight enough to leave them numb. Though he’s struggling, it’s a futile endeavour, for he cannot escape from the pair of fingertips spidering up his inner thigh, getting closer, by inchmeal, to his..._

_In defiance, he opens his lungs, screaming as loud as he can, except..._

_He doesn’t. Nothing comes out, but for a prolonged exhalation, as if the wind has been knocked from him. He can’t speak. He can’t cry. He can’t scream._

_He can’t fight._

For the second time today, L jounces awake hyperventilating. In shock, he knocks his laptop from his legs, then expeditiously lunges to catch it mid-air.

A nightmare. _But a bad dream_.

It’s dark outside. How long was he asleep‽ In a trice, he straightens his back, drapes his legs over the side of the bed, and plants his feet on the floor, grounding himself. He feels…desecrated, he feels…

_Dirty_.

Staring ahead, he shuts his dormant laptop and places it beside him, then swallows, observing his surroundings. It takes him a while to recognise them, though once he does, his breathing slows, at least slightly.

He needs a shower, so unchains himself from his unmoving suspect. As he fastens his own cuff to the bedpost, he thinks about reaching out, but…

He needs to clean himself off first. He cannot touch anyone with these filthy hands.

Most of his time in the shower he spends spaced out, having regressed to a tabula rasa as he obsessively excoriates himself until he’s certain he’s spotless. When he comes back to his senses, an unsettling realisation dawns upon him, making him drop his sponge. _Light_. If it’s dark out and he’s not yet recovered, then he needs to be checked on!

_Oh, God_, L’s thoughts race, _I didn’t even check if he was breathing, how could I be so negligent_?

Rapidly, he turns off the shower, then jumps out and haphazardly dries himself off. He can’t believe his laxity, how could he be so self-absorbed? He’s dealt with these nightmares for years, so he should be used to them; the past shouldn’t be affecting him still! Contrariwise, Light has only been stuporous for a little over two days; the poor thing must be scared to death!

_Why am I like this?_, the agitated detective asks himself. _Why am I such a self-serving prick_?

When he’s no longer quite so soaked, L secures a white towel around his waist and unlocks the door, stepping out into the shadows. He makes straight for the light switch, then hastily turns it on. When he’s wincing, he notices something out of the corner of his eye. There’s a note on his nightstand, handwritten in Japanese. Curiously, he inspects further, looming over the cabinet.

_Ryuzaki,  
Please forgive the note, I did not wish to disturb your slumber. I came in at seven to give Yagami-kun another dose._

_-Watari_

_PS: Still no response at eight-thirty. I shall return at ten, providing nothing comes up._

_Sleep well._

L’s heart plunges into his stomach. Why has Light not responded? Swiftly, he approaches his catatonic companion. Cautiously, he reaches out, hovering the back of his hand over Light’s nose to detect his breathing - which is present and stable. Next, he places that hand upon the brunet’s shoulder, and to his shock...

He can move him again.

“Light?” L calls out quietly, gently pushing the boy onto his back.

Despite being moved, Light retains the position into which he’s fixed himself. His arms seem suspended by unseeable restraints as he holds them in the air, his neck and knees are bent at awkward angles, yet he doesn’t look to be in any discomfort. He’s still reactionless. L’s breath catches as he gawks at the sight before him.

_Is this an improvement, or..._?

With tremorous hands, he lies Light’s arms flat upon the mattress. He lets himself be repositioned. Surely, that must be a good sign? Ever so carefully, L continues, placing three fingertips upon his younger’s cheek to move his head, so it rests comfortably atop his pillow.

L finds himself gazing into the lacuna within Light’s eyes. He’s never seen a living person look so dead.

The detective’s heart pounds. He remains unspoken as he removes the duvet from Light’s frame. Without issue, he pushes the boy’s knees down, so he lies supine.  
“Come on,” he mumbles, leaning in, “sit up for me.”  
Even once he’s straightened up against the headboard, Light’s position looks so unnatural. He’s making no effort to move, despite how painful holding this posture must be - whatever pose he’s placed in, he maintains, he’s almost…

_Waxy_.

L gawks for a while before snapping back into action. Next, he retrieves the glass of water from Light’s nightstand and brings it to the brunet’s lips.  
“Drink up,” he urges mutedly. “It’s only water. You need this.”  
Deaf to his elder’s advice, Light keeps his teeth clenched. L tries to get him to take a sip for another minute or so, then gives up. It’s no use. Defeated, he returns the glass to the nightstand, then picks up Light’s phone to check the time before he gets dressed. It’s ten past nine. If Light doesn’t get better by ten, L will have to call in Watari.

God knows if this lasts much longer, hospitalisation may be necessary. L shivers at the mere thought.

At nine-fifteen PM on the dot, a knock sounds upon Watari’s door.  
“Please, come in,” he requests, expectantly sitting in a tufted black living chair opposite his coffee table.  
His guest enters and remains wordless as they shut the door behind them.  
“Have a seat, Yagami-san,” Watari instructs, gesturing towards the settee.  
Souichirou does as told.  
“Good evening. May I ask why you’ve called me here?” he queries as he sits down.  
“Evening, Sir. We need to talk about your son,” Watari asserts, wringing his hands.  
When the word ‘son’ catches his ear, the chief sighs. A conspicuous look of discontentment covers his fatigued features.  
“What’s he done now?” he grumbles.  
“Nothing, per se. Forgive my candour, Sir, but I fear you may not be fully aware of just how severe his condition is.”  
“Indeed?” Souichirou sneers.  
“...Your son’s eating problems are what worry me most.” Watari gets to the point, though he pussyfoots around the word ‘_disorder_’, for he’s learnt that neither two Yagami men respond to it positively.  
“I don’t understand him.” The chief lethargically leans against his palm. “Why does he have to show me up?”  
“Anorexia is an illness,” Watari explains, “and, as with any illness, death can strike at any time without treatment.”  
“What are you trying to say?”  
“I am in contact with several specialists who are willing to help, should your son consent,” he reveals. “Now, I have not yet spoken to him about this, but if he refuses these offers, would you, as his guardian, give your consent for him to be treated against his will?”

Souichirou can’t believe his ears. This man wants to send his son to the lunatic asylum‽ The audacity!

“Absolutely not,” the chief rasps, with unadulterated umbrage scorching his umber eyes.  
“Sir, please, reconsider-”  
“My son does not belong in a madhouse,” he indignantly interrupts.  
“Psychiatric facilities are secure environments. The staff-”  
“Enough!” again, he interjects. “My final answer is no.”  
“Sir,” Watari says firmly, “I understand that, ultimately, this decision is down to you and or your son, but I strongly urge you to rethink. Your son is so worryingly malnourished I fear he may not live much longer without treatment,” he continues, mincing no words.  
“Nonsense!” Souichirou eagerly dismisses that claim. “My boy is smart; he wouldn’t let that happen.”  
“His resting heart rate has slowed,” the older man continues. “Do you know what that means, Sir?”  
“What?” Souichirou snaps.  
“His muscles are cannibalising themselves.”

The chief’s own muscles stiffen. A feeling of dread appears within, making his stomach ache.

“What?” he repeats, speaking haltingly.  
“Once the body runs out of its main energy source, carbohydrates, which will happen if an individual is in a calorie deficit, as your son is, it starts burning fat and muscle,” Watari tries to explain in layman’s terms. “Naturally, if it runs out of fat to burn, it starts burning pure muscle. Hence, many eating disordered individuals die from cardiac events; the heart is a muscle.”  
“Light’s not…” Souichirou falters, “...he’s not skeletal, he’ll be fine.”  
“A person with an eating problem can perish at any time,” the doctor adds. “His size matters not.”

For a moment, Watari swears he sees tears in Souichirou’s eyes, which the chief quickly blinks away.

“He knows this is dangerous.” The chief’s voice falls. He buries his face in his hands. “Why is he playing with his life? Is the attention really worth it?”  
“He is mentally ill, Sir; he-”  
“Don’t,” he interposes. “Just don’t. Stop saying that; it’s not true.”  
“Oh?” Watari’s polite demeanour starts to slip. “Tell me, how would you feel about making arrangements for him to undergo a mental status examination? Only to ascertain his stability, of course.”  
“My answer is and always will be no!” Souichirou raises his voice as he looks up and virtually slaps his own knees. “I won’t ever let that happen.”  
“Your son needs help. To think otherwise would be utterly delusional,” Watari chides, finally losing his temper.  
“Are you a father?” the chief inquires impertinently.  
“...In a way,” the older man replies, reluctant to reveal too much.  
“Then I ask you this: can you even begin to fathom what it’s like to no longer recognise your child?”  
“I know what it’s like to lose a child to mental illness,” he blurts out, gripping his chair’s arm. “I lost mine many years ago, and I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that he is never going to be the same. Trust me; you are going to regret not acting before it’s too late.”  
“Light can sort himself out,” the chief asserts lowly. “I raised a headstrong, resilient young man, not a hopeless, snivelling wreck.”  
“Things cannot be changed unless they are accepted,” Watari proposes. “Use the sagacity I know you possess-”

A heavily-muffled jingle suddenly interrupts the older man. Confusion clouds the chief’s countenance as Watari retrieves from his pocket a mobile phone.

“...Excuse me. I need to take this,” Watari mutters, then clears his throat. “It seems our meeting has been cut short. I suppose you are free to go.”  
“Goodnight, then,” Souichirou bitterly bids farewell, glunching in displeasure.  
“Thank you for your time.”  
As he strides away, the chief ponders that remark: ‘_things cannot be changed unless they are accepted_’. Whatever is that supposed to mean‽  
“Yagami-san?” Watari calls out as the chief grips the door handle.

Abruptly, the ringtone stops sounding.

“Yes?” Souichirou replies, glancing behind to see Watari standing beside his chair.  
“I don’t want to have to be the one to deliver news of your son’s death,” the older man says impassionedly, forgoing his courteous charade.

The chief’s heart immediately skips a beat. Both his chest and his grip tighten as he clenches his free fist.

“Enough,” he growls. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I don’t want to see my son or hear about him, not until he’s fixed himself.”

Angered and astounded, Watari watches as the chief storms out. With an unsteady sigh, he brings his mobile to his ear.  
“I assume you heard that? Forgive me if I’m not in high spirits,” he apologises, trying not to lose his composure. “What do you need at this hour?”

Under the blanket of darkness, L types when his ear catches something to his right - a faint whimper.

His fingers freeze mid-air.

“Light?” he whispers, peering at the boy lying beside him.  
A brief exhalation is the brunet’s only reply. Waveringly, L sets his laptop aside, illuminating himself with its white light as he draws nearer to his younger and places his thumbs on the back of his shoulders.  
“Come on,” he drags the limp boy into a sitting position, “sit up.”  
As he lets go, Light audibly exhales again. Then, the teenager moves freely, somewhat raising his shaky left hand. Hastily, L seizes it, interlocking their fingers.

For a second, the detective is overawed. His heart pitter-patters.

“Here,” he utters when he comes round, reaching off to the side with his free hand, “you have to drink something,” he says, bringing the glass’ brim to his leman’s lips.  
This time, Light complies, taking a few gulps. Relief rapidly disseminates within, making L feel pleasantly queasy. When Light leans against the headboard, his elder knows he’s done, so returns the glass to the nightstand.  
“Hungry,” is the first thing Light gets out in a hoarse, brittle voice.  
“Of course you are,” L coos, wringing his younger’s palm. “We’ll go down to the kitchen, but you need to get changed first.”  
“Why?” Light whispers, sounding even frailer as his voice cracks.  
“You were incontinent,” his elder explains gently. “Do you want to shower?”  
Wordless and biting his lip, Light nods timidly. Though he wants to bury his face in his hands and hide his shame, he hasn’t the strength. Incontinence? That’s _mortifying_!  
“Alright,” the detective says softly, unclasping the hand he holds. In silence, he crawls out of bed, then makes his way to Light’s side. “Let me help you up,” he offers.  
The quiet brunet stays still as his eyes fix upon L’s open palms. If he stands, he might faint, for his legs feel like jelly.  
“Light,” L murmurs, “have a shower. It’ll make you feel better.”  
Steadily, Light bestirs himself, compelled by his elder’s soft yet sonorous voice. All he desiderates is L’s lithesome limbs wreathing his and that velvety voice in his ear. Speaking of limbs, he ought to move his. Without much thought, he drops his legs over the side of the bed. His stomach turns as he leans forward, but before he even has time to comprehend this, he’s pulled to his feet.

Immediately, his vision blotches. The world grows blurrier by the millisecond, and all external sound is drowned out by the strident ringing in his ears and the sound of his shallow breaths. With each heart palpitation, his head throbs, making him feel as though his brain is about to crack open his skull.

“_Let me go_...” he says without realising, thinking out loud.  
L can only just hear Light’s utterance. The boy stares ahead so blankly he looks completely lobotomised.  
“Are you sure you want me to let go?” the detective asks. He receives no answer. “Light?”  
The brunet’s name seems to get his attention. He blinks himself out of his haze, meeting L’s line of sight.  
“Do you think you can walk without help?”  
Light gives a subdued, barely perceivable nod, which only worsens his wooziness. Thus, L haltingly sets him free, taking a few steps back to make room for him to move by himself. It’s like teaching a toddler. Equally as warily, Light extends his right foot, letting its toes rest upon the fawn-coloured carpet’s raised swirls as he plucks up the courage to put his weight onto it. Eventually, he gulps, squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation, and takes a step forward.

In an instant, he’s brought to his knees. Perfidiously plunged into a state of collapse, he retches helplessly, spewing out a blend of bile and water. Each heartbeat presses against his cranium, the acid he ejects sears his dehydrated throat, his greyish hands are tingly yet numb, the room rotates and everything blurs and echoes as the phrase ‘_just let me go_’ plays inside his head.

“Light!” In a flash, L crouches at his younger’s side. “Oh, no...” he mutters, watching frightfully as the heaving boy judders. “Can you speak? Are you alright?” he gibbers.  
“Fine,” Light rasps out, gasping for air following his vomiting spell.  
“Should I call someone?” Again, L’s eyes rove, studying every aspect of his liverish companion’s hunched figure.  
“Happened before,” the teenager somewhat elaborates, still speaking in an undertone.  
“Can anything help?” L’s voice quavers.  
“Food,” Light replies laconically.  
“Hold on,” the elder of the two stands, “I might have something in here.”  
He crawls onto the bed, carefully avoiding the mucky sheets. Though the chain is long enough to let him reach into his bedside cabinet, the lack of light makes it near-impossible to see its contents. Irritatedly, he sits upright to flick the switch. The sudden brightness makes him wince, and he has to shield his eyes, though, once he’s accustomed, he snaps to attention. Leaning forward again, he espies an opened box of madeleines in his top drawer. He picks it up and peers inside; there’s four left.  
“You’re lucky. Watari gave me these yesterday.”  
He kneels a short distance from the poorly brunet, with only the puddle of yellowish vomit seeping into the carpet to separate them. The boy looks worse than ever, so L doesn’t hesitate to offer him the box. Diffidently, Light takes it into his unsteady hands. His eyes trail across the packaging, deciphering the katakana. _Madeleine_. From the picture, they look like biscuits. Unsoundly, he flips it over.  
“No,” L immediately knows what he’s doing, and stops him by snatching the box back, “just eat,” he commands softly, taking out a plastic-packaged biscuit.  
This time, Light doesn’t delay, grabbing it in seconds. As he tears it open, L gets the water.  
“Here,” he says, holding out the glass.  
His companion is unresponsive. The teenager merely stares down at that in his grasp, breathing heavily.  
“Light, it’s okay,” the detective soothes. “You need to eat something.”  
With pure distress writ large upon his face, Light breaks off the tiniest bit of biscuit with his thumb and index finger. Falteringly, he slips it into his mouth. It’s sweet and buttery, a rich, cakelike confection with which he could so easily stuff himself. As it melts on his tongue, he takes the glass from L, then washes it down. He wants more, so gives in to hunger, eagerly devouring every last crumb, only stopping to moisten his mouth with water. Then, he steals the box and does the same with the next biscuit. And the next. Though the voice within tells him he’s ruining everything, and he can’t start binging again, and he can’t embarrass himself in front of Ryuzaki like this, he pays it little mind. It never has been able to stop him from succumbing to disorderly decadence.

_You’re so weak_, it reminds him. _That’s why you’re always giving in._

When he’s finished, he stares down into the box’s hollow centre. Why did he just do that?

_You’re a pathetic pig. You need to atone._

“Do you feel better now?” L asks in that gorgeous voice of his, overpowering the harsh hisses of Light’s hallucinatory advisor.  
Soundlessly, the brunet nods, only half-truthfully. Though his insatiate stomach has settled, the guilt this breeds is suffocating. It diffuses through every cell, telling him his wrongdoings must be expiated, making him know that, right now, his only purpose in this miserable life is to disgorge all his shame so he can be pure again.  
“Good,” L croons, taking the box from Light and placing it beside the pile of wrappers. “Would you like me to help you up?”  
Again, he nods tepidly. And so, his elder helps him to his feet. His physical symptoms are milder now, so they reach his wardrobe without hindrance.  
“I want you to speak to me whilst you shower,” the detective begins, watching his younger pick out a clean outfit, “just so I know you’re okay. Can you do that for me?”  
Light replies only by running a hand over the fabric of his various upper garments. He has no will to speak. Nobody wants to hear him, anyway. It’s better to keep his stupid mouth shut.  
“Light, please, speak to me.”  
For once, L’s orders remain unheeded. Light picks out a pair of light grey sweatpants, some white socks, a greyish t-shirt, a clean pair of underwear, and an off-white hoodie, then makes for the bathroom.

Despite L’s every attempt to force the words out, he, eventually, has to accept that Light will not speak.  
“Ten minutes, okay?” he compromises, undoing his silent suspect’s cuff. “No more.”  
Without even a display of agreement, the teenager breaks their eye contact and slips behind the bathroom door, which he locks as he turns on the light. He sets his clean clothes aside, turns on the shower, sheds his sullied garbs, then hops into the bath. 

Within seconds, he’s on his knees in punitive repentance.

Once he’s spruced up and dried off, Light fleet-footedly hurtles into the communal kitchen. L follows, yet says nothing as his younger reaches into a cupboard. He leans against a counter, only moving when the chain forces him to, and merely watches as Light eats. And eats. And eats. He wolfs down sweet senbei, glutinous manju, saccharine gummies, gourmet chocolates, and virtually anything he can get his paws on that might allay his illimitable hunger, anything that might anæsthetise the pain ruthlessly laying his mind and body to waste, not even stopping to irradiate his surroundings. He consumes pursuing comfort and contentment; he wants to feel okay if for but an ephemeral instant. This habit hauls him up and up, getting him higher with each bite until he’s immobilised and aching, then lets him fall and makes him face the consequences. One minute he’s exulting in ecstasy without a care in the world, and the next, he’s drowning in indignity, curled up in a bathroom with fingers down his throat and voices screeching within. At present, he craves, and he covets, and he yearns, so he cossets and caters to himself and yields to his fancies, but nothing helps. He raids the cupboards and forays the fridge, he even breaks into the freezer and crams down an ice cream sandwich despite feeling sick, but following this, L quashes his frenzy.  
“No more.” He grabs Light’s unshackled wrist, halting him as he makes for the bin to dispose of the wrapper.  
Light seems to tense up again. He looks appalled.  
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that!” L realises his younger may have taken that the wrong way. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. You might rupture your stomach.”  
For a fleeting moment, the boy looks like he’s about to burst into tears. L is getting ready to take him into arms when his mien is fordone. Apathetically, he pries away his elder’s hand and does as he intended to before being stopped. Afterwards, he takes a few heavy steps, then leans against a counter and sinks to the floor, careless of the discomfort the wood pressing against his spine creates, pulling his knees up against his forehead as his fingers entangle amidst his locks. In no time, L takes a seat beside him. He doesn’t react as the detective takes his hand, keeping his fingers outstretched.

All he can focus on is the shrieking in his head. He’s being berated, demeaned, chastened, and goaded, yet he weeps not.

He has no tears left to shed.

The next five minutes the two spend in a hush. Until Light takes to his feet, the only audible sound is that of their breaths.  
“Where are you going?” L queries as he hurriedly rouses himself.  
As expected, there’s no reply. Warily, he tails his younger, traipsing through the dark dining room and out into the lit hallway. He’s confused until the brunet stills himself in front of a bathroom’s entrance.  
“No!” he utters sternly, pouncing upon his younger and restraining both arms.  
“Let me,” Light finally speaks up.  
“I can’t,” the detective grips his suspect tighter, growling into his ear from behind. “You know how dangerous that is.”  
“Have to,” the brunet says feverishly, with widening eyes.  
“You don’t. Come back upstairs. You need to take your vitamins.”  
An unprompted mewl is the teenager’s only response as he struggles against the hands trammelling him. He frantically fights for freedom, using all his strength, even kicking at his elder’s shins, but it’s no use! Though he wants to cry, all he produces are defiant whimpers as L drags him towards the nearest lift.  
“Light!” the detective exclaims. “Stop struggling. We’re going upstairs. You need your vitamins and some sleep.”  
“Have to,” his younger mindlessly repeats.  
“Why? Is expelling the temporary guilt you’re feeling worth the damage you’ll do to your teeth? Is it worth the seizures you might induce? Is it worth rupturing your oesophagus or having a heart attack and ending up in the hospital!?” L all but yells that last sentence, ending Light’s resistance.  
“...I’m addicted,” Light croaks after a brief silence.  
With that, his elder pulls him close. Reluctantly, he reciprocates the hug. Words are unneeded. He lets the detective squeeze him, not caring that all his fat can be felt, basking in the pleasant sensations overwhelming the internal agony.

Butterflies flit inside his stomach. His heart flutters, he feels swoony, and when they pull apart and look each other in the eye, he knows he’s fallen in love.

By the time Watari is free, ten-thirty has come and gone. Frenetically, he advances towards L and Light’s quarters and doesn’t bother knocking before rushing inside.

To his surprise, he’s met with the indistinct outline of two young men in an embrace on their settee. Illuminated only by the light that bleeds out from the corridor, L, who reclines with his legs outstretched and Light lying prone against his chest, briefly presses his index finger against his lips.

Long-awaited relief calms Watari’s nerves as he edges closer, keeping the door open to let light flow in.  
“I am so sorry,” he whispers. “There was trouble at home. I got caught up with Roger. Is he alright?”  
“He’s moving now. Don’t worry,” L whispers back. “He’s sated and has taken his pills. There is a bit of a mess in the bedroom, though.”  
“What happened?”  
“The sheets need changing, and he threw up on the carpet earlier.”  
“Oh, dear,” the older man laments quietly. “Are you two otherwise okay for the night?”  
“We’re fine,” L assures him, lying through his perfect teeth. “Um, nothing too serious happened back home, right?”  
“No, no,” Watari shakes his head, “just a problem with one of the children. I want you two to pay me a visit in the morning. As soon as you can, preferably.”  
“Okay,” his adoptee agrees. “Which child?”  
“Our Mello,” Watari divulges. “I will explain later. Are you sure you need nothing more?”  
“Certain.”  
“Alright.”  
With that said, Watari ventures into the bedroom to retrieve the dirty sheets. It’s starting to look like a late night.

By now, late nights and early mornings are quotidian. At eight-thirty AM, he’s enjoying a cup of tea and a newspaper when there’s a knock at his door. On the double, he lowers his teacup onto its saucer atop his table; the paper soon follows, for he recognises that knock. He stands, wipes down his white dress shirt, clears his throat, then briskly walks over to his door. After it’s unlocked and opened, he meets with his visitors.  
“How nice to see your improvement, Yagami-kun,” he greets genially, smiling at the surprisingly soigné teenager. He doesn’t smile back, nor react in any way. “Please, excuse my attire, I awoke not long ago. Come in.”  
“Pardon the intrusion,” L utters as they step inside. He hasn’t slept, and it shows.  
“Nonsense,” Watari tuts as Light shuts the door. “I invited you. Have a seat.” He nods towards the settee.  
“New chair?” L inquires, eyeing it up as he approaches.  
“Borrowed from my bedroom. Now,” his elder takes to his heels once more, “I need to retrieve something. I shan’t be long.”  
“Okay,” the ebony-haired man rejoins as he and his younger take their seats. “...Are you alright?” he asks the brunet when Watari disappears behind the door that leads deeper into his quarters.  
As anticipated, Light says nothing, aimlessly fidgeting with his garnet sleeves as his unbeautified eyes inspect his black trousers. He hadn't the strength nor the drive to put his makeup on.  
“If you won’t speak to me, at least speak to him,” L mutters. “He’s going out of his way to help you.”  
Nothing further is said. Watari returns after a minute or two, with another capped syringe in hand.  
“Now,” he begins as he sits opposite the chained duo, “how are you feeling this morning, Yagami-kun?”  
Nothing. Light doesn’t even look up.  
“...Yagami-kun?” Watari repeats.  
“He’s barely speaking,” L sighs.  
“‘Barely’?”  
“In incomplete sentences of not many syllables,” he elaborates.  
“Why is that?” Watari addresses Light.  
The brunet glances at the doctor for but a second.  
“Yagami-kun?” Watari leans forward. “Have no fear; we wish to help. All we need is one word.”  
“Light, please?” L pipes up when there’s no reply.  
“...Is someone telling you not to speak?” Watari questions softly.  
“...Light,” L buts in again, “remember what we said about cooperation? You promised me you’d talk.”  
“Never promised,” Light promptly rejoins, speaking in whispers.  
“Oh, Yagami-kun,” Watari begins ruefully, “I take it your spirits are low today?”  
The teenager nods so slightly it’s difficult to perceive.  
“I have something that may help. Could you lend me your arm, please?”  
At last, he looks up again, glaring at the older man with narrowed eyes.  
“This,” Watari lifts the hand his syringe is in, “is what relieved your catatonia. If this medicine is discontinued too soon, you may relapse.”  
Light understands. Without further ado, he unbuttons his sleeve, pulls it past his elbow, then turns his arm over.  
“Thank you,” the doctor says gratefully, getting out of his chair.  
L observes his handler feeling for a vein. The mere image gives him chills. It curdles his blood and makes his fibres stand on end, yet he can’t look away. That whetted needle has him enraptured. He’s so distracted he doesn’t notice his breath quickening. As soon as it burrows beneath Light’s skin, L chokes on a lump. The atmosphere transmutes and he...he...

He’s barely taller than the rickety table she’s slumped across. Those wild black tresses of hers obscure what little of her face would be visible if it wasn’t planted against the dark wood. Unsightly bruises, cuts, and scars stain her unfurled arm. Torn packets of pale powder, blackened, dirtied spoons, and a discarded syringe and lighter surround her inanimate form.  
“Mummy?” he squeaks as he creeps closer. “Mummy?” he repeats, giving her a shake.  
She’s flaccid, like a weeping willow’s branchlets, yet he isn’t strong enough to displace her sylphlike limbs.  
“Mummy?”  
He tugs at her black t-shirt. She’s oblivious, so he lets go. His mouth gapes, and his flesh crawls, and...

“L!” 

A male voice shouts out his name. It’s a voice so familiar, yet so foreign.

In reply, he merely mewls and mumbles, unable to spit out comprehensible words.

“Listen to me, L,” Watari enjoins, crouching before his adoptee. “This is a flashback. Do you understand?”  
Light watches anxiously with a sidelong gaze, pulling down his sleeve. Pure terror is written upon L’s visage, so the aghast brunet precipitately seizes his right hand, silently swearing he won’t let go. The detective’s eyes dart towards those joined hands, then promptly return to staring ahead. He and Watari back and forth in contrasting tones for several minutes, and for a while, Light thinks it'll never end; until, at last, L’s erratic breathing steadies. Slowly but surely, he’s coaxed into reality by his handler’s assurances. When he’s lucid, he meets Light’s eye line and intertwines their fingers.  
“_You okay?_” Light mouths, soundless.  
“Yeah,” L replies, nodding, “thank you. Shall we get back to our discussion?” he queries as if nothing’s happened.  
“L, are you sure-”  
“I’m fine,” he impudently interrupts, snarling at his elder. “Where were we?”  
“Stop lying.” Watari hangs his head.  
“I’m okay now,” the detective insists, unconsciously running his thumb over Light’s. “Worry about him.” He nods in his younger’s direction.  
“Are you sure you don’t want to speak to someone?”  
“I’m sure.”  
The oldest of the three sighs deeply. Why did he think L might have changed his mind? They’ve been at an impasse for years. With feigned dispassion, he clears his countenance, returning to his seat.  
“Are you sure?” he asks once more.  
“Shut up.” L lets him know he’s had enough.  
“...Yagami-kun,” Watari begins, returning to the original topic, “listen to these words very carefully: do you want help?”  
For a moment, it looks like Light won’t respond. But then, he nods.  
“How would you feel about admission to a psychiatric facility?” Watari proposes.  
Immediately, Light looks up, violently shaking his head.  
“Fear not; they are nothing like regular hospitals,” the older man tries to reassure. “It will be an environment in which you can safely recover.”  
“Never,” the teenager whimpers.  
“...How about psychotherapy?” Watari continues in disquietude. “All you need do is talk.”  
“I’m not psycho,” Light protests, gazing at his held hand.  
“No, Dear,” L chips in, “but talking isn’t hard, is it?”  
If only he knew. Obstinately, Light turns his head.  
“Yagami-kun, these are your sole options,” the doctor explains.  
The brunet fidgets again. He wants what he knows he can’t have. He can’t risk therapy. He can’t chance his father finding out; he’d be disowned!  
“If you want help, you need to choose one,” L says mellifluently.  
“Psychotherapy can be done anonymously if you like,” Watari adds. “It can be done online, even. What do you say?”  
Light thinks about it. Then, he declines, though it’s so hard to do. He wouldn't be able to bear disownment.  
“Dear,” L begins, “how can you get help if you keep refusing it?”  
The teenager ripostes by grabbing L’s empty hand to hold it down atop their interlaced ones.  
“I’m not a therapist, Light,” the detective exclaims.

_But I love you_, the brunet thinks. _I love you so much it hurts_.

“We can only get you so far, Yagami-”  
Light’s muffled ringtone interposes, quietening everyone. It doesn’t take him long to answer the call.  
“Hello?” he mumbles.  
_“Light-kun!”_ Matsuda vociferates. _“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you forever! Are you alright? Watari told me you weren’t well yesterday.”_  
“I’m fine,” the teenager says mutedly.  
_“There’s something I need to ask you.”_  
“Hm?”  
_“Well, Ryuzaki-san...what is he to you?”_  
“A friend.”  
_“You’re close, then,”_ he utters, sounding troubled.  
“Mhm.”  
_“Can he hear me right now?”_  
“No,” Light lies.  
_“...Has he ever hurt you?”_ Matsuda inquires hesitantly.  
“No.”  
_“Are you sure? You can tell me anything.”_  
“I’m sure.”  
_“Then...”_ he continues, _“...does he purposely upset you?”_  
“At times,” Light admits. L glowers at him and unclasps his hand, worsening his terror.  
_“Does he insult you, or...?”_  
“No,” he denies. Why is he being grilled like this?  
_“Right...”_ Matsuda utters. He realises he isn’t going to get answers today. _“Listen, I know you’re not okay. We need to speak in person. When can I see you?”_  
“When I feel better.”  
_“Call me ASAP, alright?”_  
“Okay. Bye.”  
_“Already‽ Light-kun, we-”_  
With that, Light hangs up. Pain shoots through his chest as he lets his arm go limp.  
“He’s prying,” L sneers. “This isn’t his business.”  
“Still, I think you should talk to him, Yagami-kun,” Watari comments.  
“Need time,” the brunet murmurs.  
“We will give you time to think,” the doctor begins, “but you need to decide how you want to be treated within the coming days.”  
Light nods.  
“Yagami-kun?”  
He looks up.  
“How are your memories now?”  
“Blotchy. Got gaps.”  
“I see,” Watari muses. He didn’t expect that. “Psychotherapy can help with that, too, you know. You need to come to me tonight for another injection and a blood test,” he continues. “In the meantime, I would like to resituate you two.”  
“Tari!” L glares.  
“He is going to go mad if you keep him confined to that cramped space,” the older man mutters in English.  
“That was the goal,” his adoptee retorts likewise.  
“_Was_. Now,” he switches language as he stands, “I think the rooms on the floor below us will suit you both, but come and have a look regardless.”  
The pair comply, following their elder over to his desk to scan the CCTV footage. Watari presents lavish, spacious, well-decorated quarters akin to Misa’s. They consist of a bedroom coloured in white, Prussian blue, and gold, an en-suite bathroom with a black and white colour scheme, a living room coloured primarily in a delicate tea green, a study coloured cardinal and chestnut, a dining room and recreation room, both in mardi gras purple and black, and a kitchen, which, quite like the bathroom, is black and white. They're modern and...very, _very_ costly-looking.  
“What do you think?” Watari inquires.  
“Fine with me,” L states, too tired to resist.  
“Wonderful. Is anything missing?”  
“Divider,” the teenager mumbles.  
“A room divider?” Watari queries.  
The youngest of the three nods. He wants to keep himself hidden whilst he changes.  
“No problem. I should be able to get that for you. Now...forgive me if this is sudden, but are you ready to get started with the move?”  
"I should be," L drawls without much thought.  
Light thinks about his answer. Then, he nods. It’ll be a fresh start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: depictions of sexual abuse, recreational drug abuse, and overdose. Again, it's nothing particularly graphic, but I ought to warn you nonetheless. I think perhaps you should stop reading this fic now if you're sensitive to these kinds of topics.
> 
> Please forgive this chapter's overdramatic metaphors. I just like the way they sound.
> 
> Can we all agree that Souichirou deserves the worst father of the century award? Swear down I'm gonna batter him.
> 
> I know I'm dragging this Matsuda thing out. Forgive me; there are certain things I want to squeeze into this story before the confrontation scene. All I ask for is your patience.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I’ll only use TWs for topics not already discussed in this fic. Please, do let me know if you have any objections to that, and pay heed to the previous warnings.

_“You’re not right in the head!”  
B’s cruel cri de cœur assaults L’s ears as a dresser’s hardwood frame breaks his fall, making him grunt as it scrapes his skull. Louring at his apoplectic coeval, he feels the back of his head for blood; thankfully, it’s dry.  
“Neither are you,” he retorts.  
“I’m not as fucked as you are, though,” B snickers. “Look at yourself! You’re just taking this. Any sane person would fight back.”  
“Shut up,” L sneers back, wiping his busted lip.  
“Come on,” B incites him, “hit me.”  
“We’re not playing blackjack,” L mutters en passant as he stands.  
“What? Is this a game to y-”  
The uppercut to B’s jaw interrupts his chortles. His grin dissipates. L stares him down with a fearsome look as he feels the tender site of impact.  
“Son of a bitch!” he spits, recovering from his shock and tackling his compeer to the floor.  
L snarls, defending himself at once. The fifteen-year-olds’ limbs tangle as they roll around on the slate-grey carpet of B’s bedroom, competing for the upper hand. They exchange bites, scratches, insults, and smacks until the black-haired boy lands a solid punch to B’s nose.  
“Oh, you’ve really fucked up now,” the instigator says menacingly.  
With all his strength, he flips their position. As he holds L’s wrists behind his own head, blood trickles from his nostril, and his fuscous forelocks overhang burnt umber eyes alight with ferocity.  
“B-” an unbidden yelp begot by the powerful punch to his nose halts L’s sentence.  
“Eye for eye, tooth for tooth,” the lighter-haired boy pants. “You are beyond contempt.” He clouts that same area once again, just as the blood begins to spill. “You’re a vile insect, Lawliet. The only thing bigger than that ego of yours is your mouth.”  
L’s teeth chatter as a hand clutches his chin.  
“I know what you tell the counsellor about our...fights,” B derides with a smirk, emphasising that last word. They both know this isn’t ‘fighting’. “Mr Wammy might be dense enough to believe us, but I just know our shrink’s getting suspicious.” He lets out a chuckle. “How demented is that? I’m forced into fucking talk therapy because of what you’ve done to me.”  
The ebon-haired teenager breathes heavily.  
“I wouldn’t have ever hit you if you hadn’t fucked with my emotions,” his successor says with false sorrow. “I don’t know how else to cope, L. I’m under too much pressure.”  
“Maybe if you actually listened to the shrink...” L gets out, though B’s hand distorts his words.  
“You know, I hate you!” the brunet declares, suddenly enclasping L’s throat and squeezing hard. “I hate so much about you.”  
Instantly, L struggles to free his wrists.  
“I hate your wretched face and your witty rejoinders and your infuriating intelligence and your- oh, I hate you so much!”  
Two hands wring L’s neck. Thrills of excitement run rampant throughout B’s body as fingernails flay his opisthenars and long legs thrash, ruthlessly kicking his. Soon enough, he has his combatant overpowered, with knees on his thighs and hands around his throat. L’s movements slow; his visage cyanoses, his numbers decrease, and his eyelids droop, and as he’s passing out..._

He bolts awake.

At first, his environment seems unfamiliar, so he puts himself on the defence, jolting upright as his eyes go berserk.

Oh, of course. Light’s lying beside him, sound asleep. They’re in their bedroom in their new quarters. They relocated earlier today.

L expels a breathy whimper as he fixates on the hem of the drawn velvet curtains. _Just another nightmare_, he assures himself. Nothing more. That’s all. He shouldn’t let it bother him. As his fingertips brush his Adam’s apple, he swallows, for that incident slipped his memory long ago. _Not happening anymore_. Gingerly, he untucks himself, and promises not to fall asleep again, not until he’s forgotten. When they touch the tufted portion of the embroidered, silken duvet cover, his toes curl in recoil. It feels too much like home.

Drawing his knees up against his heaving chest and hugging his legs, he hides his face and asks himself one question: _why did I stop fighting_?

Two days later, Watari weans Light off lorazepam. Gradually, the boy talks a bit more, and finally says he wants nothing to do with any mental health professionals. Even with much effort to change his decision at L and Watari’s hands, he’s adamant that he can get through this without “_bothering more people than he needs to_”. As a compromise, Watari suggests he come and speak to him thrice or quarce weekly, in a sort of alternative therapy. Reluctantly, he agrees and starts making progress, albeit minuscule.

He says he’s happier in their new lodgings, for he has more room to breathe. The day after they move in, he gets his opaque folding divider, which sits at the foot of the bed. He still eats like a rabbit, yet helps L steadily regain his appetite. Most days, he busies himself with reading; he requests English translations of books already on the shelf, saying he wants to hone his language skills, and Watari obliges. Twice does Light try to watch television, but he dozes off sprawled out on a chaise both times.

Matsuda is relentless. Every other day, he’s ringing Light and asking how he is and when they can see each other. Light tells him to wait. He’s assured him he will be ready, eventually, as Ryuzaki and Watari are taking good care of him.

Misa calls, too, and sends worried texts. Light doesn’t answer her.

He doesn’t hear from his father, but Aizawa and Mogi check up on him.

L isn’t as affectionate as he used to be. Seldom does he use pet names. He hasn’t kissed Light in forever. Light keeps wondering if he’s done something wrong.

On the fourth night they spend in their new bedroom, Light lies awake and watches L messaging someone on his laptop.  
“Who’s m?” he queries quietly.  
L looks at him as though he’s just asked for his real name.  
“Don’t be nosy,” the detective replies, revealing nothing.  
The brunet simply watches the conversation proceed. He understands a little.

_m: idk what to do tho  
m: neither does roger  
m: mells just keeps hurting himself  
L: Keep him company. Let him know we care about him, and he’s worth more than he thinks.  
m: u know he needs u  
m: ur his idol  
L: So, tell him how much I love him. If I could, I’d be there in a heartbeat.  
L: Show him these messages before they’re deleted, please._

Jealousy turns Light’s stomach. Is L two-timing him?  
“Your partner?” he says under his breath.  
“What?” L blurts out, donning the most baffled expression Light’s ever seen on a person. “How’d you conclude that?”  
“You love him.”  
“Like a brother,” L elaborates. “He’s fourteen.”  
An omnium-gatherum of relief and remorse represses Light’s resentment. He says nothing.  
“Why are you eavesdropping, anyway?” the detective inquires.

_L: I’m so sorry. I have to go now. Speak soon. Remember I’m here for all of you, okay?  
m: ok c u_

With that, L closes the conversation.  
“...Come to bed,” Light suggests.  
“I’m not tired.”  
“You haven’t slept for three nights.”  
“Oh? Doesn’t feel like it.”  
L’s charade doesn’t fool Light, who sees the exhaustion in his bagged, wilting eyes and languid, cloddish movements.  
“Lie down,” the brunet advises.  
“I’m fine,” the detective insists. His weathered, inattentive stare disproves this claim.  
“Please?” Light whispers.  
L sighs. This is the first time they’ve been able to hold a coherent conversation in days. He wants Light to improve, so he appeals to this boy’s wishes, banishing his closed laptop to his nightstand.  
“Happy now?” he questions as he tucks himself in.  
His companion stays silent. The two hold eye contact in complete tenebrosity, trying to figure each other out.

_Something’s changed_, they both think.

“...Can we kiss?”  
“What?”  
Light wordlessly waits for an answer.  
“...If you’d like,” his bemused elder responds at last.  
He doesn’t delay. In seconds, he plants a hand on L’s cheek and pecks his lips. He’d forgotten how sweet they taste, so he kisses them once more, and L reciprocates with equal enthusiasm, making Light’s heart tremble. They pull apart for but a second before locking lips yet again. And again. And again. Each kiss shared gets rougher and longer as the mutual, visceral longing held within starts to seep out; though Light’s practically melting, L refuses to deepen these impassioned kisses, so the younger of the two shies away.  
“What’ve I done?” the erubescent brunet inquires timorously.  
“What do you mean?”  
“You’re less…” he thinks up an appropriate word, “...touchy-feely,” he continues.  
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” L reassures him. “I just haven’t felt well recently.”  
He’s understating, of course. His hypervigilance is glaringly apparent, not to mention those crying fits he had not long ago and the...what did Watari call it, ‘_flashback_’? Light wants to help L feel better and take his mind off his problems, and likewise goes for himself, too, so…  
“Straddle me,” he instructs, unclasping L’s cheek.  
“What!?” L exclaims. “Say that again,” he orders, second-guessing his ears; after all, Light speaks so quietly now.  
“Straddle me,” Light repeats.  
For a moment, L is at a loss. “...Why?” he queries, gimlet-eyed.  
The brunet looks away. _Am I really that repulsive?_, he asks himself.  
“Please?” he mumbles.  
“Light…” L begins haltingly, “...are you suggesting what I think you are?”  
His younger merely nods.  
“Look at me,” the detective commands softly.  
Light obeys.  
“You’re too delicate right now.”  
Overcome with chagrin, Light swiftly leans in and plants another heated kiss upon those candied, captivating lips of L’s, catching him off guard.  
“Light,” he flinches, pushing his younger away, “I can’t. You’re fragile.”  
“You’re not?” Light scoffs sotto voce.  
His elder doesn’t reply. He’s unsure how to proceed, for he knows not if he can bring himself to do anything to this broken boy. Then again, he isn’t exactly whole either, is he?  
“...I want this.”  
“Why?” L inquires charily.  
“I...need to feel wanted.”

“_I need to feel loved_,” is what Light would like to say, but L cannot possibly return these foolish feelings. He must be so far above them.

“There are other ways,” L assures worriedly.  
“I want this,” his younger reiterates.  
“Are you sure?”  
Light nods.  
“See, this is the problem,” L sighs. “If you want to do these things, you have to communicate with me. Don’t nod, say yes. And don’t be afraid to say no.”  
“...I’ll speak.”  
“Then tell me what you want.”  
“Straddle me.”  
As much as he hates to admit it, L wants Light too. He’s wanted him for so long; the wait is becoming unbearable at this point…

So, he complies, going against his better judgement. Light’s blush worsens as he finds himself trapped under L’s form. L lets his weary eyes roam, taking in every facet of his fancy’s frame. Since there’s so heartbreakingly little to him, he doesn’t leer for long.

“I promised you I’d never do anything without your consent,” L recalls. “So, tell me, what do you consent to?”  
The brunet gulps in anticipation. That provocative voice alone has the power to divert his bloodflow. He wants it to caress his ear, whispering obscene things, and he wants it to praise him but also belittle him but-  
“Light?”  
“Touch me,” he blurts out with little thought.  
“Where?” L purrs, disguising his apprehension.  
“Anywhere,” Light murmurs.  
Those half-lidded russet eyes are impossible for L to resist; they display an unfalsifiable craving, a bodily need that begs to be satisfied. They simply burn with voracity, beckoning L closer, whose breath hitches as he tentatively rests a hand against a protruding, clothed hipbone.  
“Is here okay?” he asks in a low, seductive voice that ties Light’s stomach in knots.  
“Yes,” his younger responds affirmatively.  
“How about…” L’s fingertips wander, then raise themselves, “...here?” he questions as his hand hovers above the bulge forming in Light’s trousers.  
“Yes,” the brunet whispers.  
“Don’t feel compelled to agree,” his elder says gently. “Let me know if you feel pressured.”  
“I want this.”  
“You’re absolutely sure?”  
“Yes.”  
“Positive?”  
“Yes!”  
As soon as L so much as taps his neglected cock through his sweatpants, Light is sick with salacity, erratically gasping in response. Two fingertips lightly trace its outline, making him clutch the sheet as he entangles their legs, clumsily pulling L down onto him. L’s head rests against Light’s chest, and Light’s hardened cock presses against L’s abdomen, forcing from the detective an audible exhalation. He hearkens to Light’s increasing heart rate, thoughtfully biting his lip. Just seeing and _feeling_ his companion like this drives him mad; it makes him feel sick to his stomach but also strangely smug. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but-  
“Please,” his surprisingly candid younger pants, “touch me.”  
“Can I undress you?” L asks just as breathily as he pulls away, putting his hands at either side of the smaller male.  
“Yes.”  
L wastes no time. In an instant, he’s tossing the aureate blanket aside, tugging Light’s trousers down, throwing them to the hardwood floorboards, then curling his fingertips around the hem of Light’s underwear.

They stare each other down with torrid thirst in their eyes.

“Are you certain?” L inquires pensively.  
“_Yes_,” the brunet repeats, so hot-blooded.  
Thus, L so carelessly flings Light’s underwear to the floor. The boy blushes even harder, for this is the first time he’s been exposed before another. He gulps again, thanking his lucky stars it’s so dark.  
“Look at you,” his elder coos, earning another gasp as he wraps a hand around Light’s average-sized cock. “You’re so responsive. I’ve barely touched you.”  
“_Ah_!” Light moans and his toes curl as a thumb circles his head.  
“_Oh, fuck_,” L swears in his native tongue, with precum slick against his thumb tip. “You’re adorable, Kitten.”  
That scabrous nickname begets a carnal mewl, and Light bucks his hips as L starts to stroke him, ever so slowly. It’s much too dark to see anything in detail, but just from the feel of him in his palm, L knows he’s flawless. Even when he’s being touched like this and holding back such indelicate sounds, Light looks so _pure_ \- even as he grips onto the bedsheet in sheer lubricity, and even as he salaciously squirms.  
“I want to do unspeakable things to you,” L half-laughs, his voice thick with passion as he strokes faster.  
“Just your ha-_ah_-nd or your m-mouth, please,” Light stutters, almost instantly matching L’s new pace with his hips.  
“My mouth, hm?” his elder hums as he slows down again. “Do you think you’d like that?”  
The brunet blushes harder than ever before. “Yes,” he admits.  
“Ask nicely,” L commands softly, emptying his hand.  
“_Please_,” his companion whines, looking so _delectable_, in every aspect.  
“Please what?”  
“I-I want your mouth around my...”  
“Around your cock?” L unexpectedly runs a finger down Light’s shaft, making him gasp.  
“Yes!”  
“Ask _nicely_.”  
“Please, Ryuzaki?”  
“Say it properly,” he orders firmly. “I need to know exactly what you want.”  
Light swallows the scintilla of amour propre he has left, not even trying to still himself. “Please, will you...suck my cock?”  
L chuckles. “See, you can be vulgar. Don’t be shy, Pet. You need to tell me what you do and don’t like.”  
With that said, he moves downwards, so Light nervously crosses his wiry legs at the knees, clenching his abdominal muscles and biting his lower lip as his jumbled, ribald thoughts race. Without warning, L grabs Light’s inner thighs and spreads his legs wide as if he’s but a harlot, making him squeeze his eyes shut in embarrassment.

_He really is going to do **that**, isn’t he‽_, the younger of the two marvels. Oh, this is too good to last!

Another moan escapes him as something warm and wet brushes against the head of his cock. His eyes shoot open, immediately looking down. Carefully, L takes his uncut tip past his lips, masterfully swirling his tongue around it. With another libidinous sound, Light juts his hips, pushing himself further into his elder’s talented mouth. In response, L promptly pulls away and pins his hips down with a firm grip, looking…_petrified_.  
“Ryuzaki?” the brunet susurrates.  
“What’s wrong?” L replies at once, with conspicuous unease in his voice.  
“Did I scare you?”  
“...No, it’s fine,” he lies, slowing his breathing. “...Oh, you’re beautiful, Light,” he keenly changes the subject, eyeing up that exposed cock.  
He licks at it again, so deftly, extracting from its owner a lingering whine.  
“You’re so vocal,” L’s rich voice croons. “In fact, this is the most vocal you’ve been in days.” He lays a kiss upon Light’s tip. “Good boy,” he praises before filling his mouth.  
His beau’s fingers entwine around coarse locks as he’s taken into his throat. Moving now, L lets out a suppressed sound of pleasure as his tongue delights his companion who arches his back and writhes beneath him, despairingly trying to move his bruising hips whilst moaning like some frisky fille de joie. _Fuck_, the feeling of Light pulsating inside his mouth tightens L’s jeans and reawakens the ardour he thought he’d long since lost. It’s been an eternity since he felt this alive. His amour fou flames like hellfire, spitting molten beads of fervour like an erupting volcano and setting their desirous bodies ablaze; it’s so intense L fears it may be carrying him away, so he lets Light go for a moment.  
“Speak to me,” L demands before licking Light from base to tip.  
“Wha- _oh_, wha-_ah_-t should I sa-ay?” the brunet moans out.  
“How does it feel?”  
“Feels good,” he confesses, already drenched in sweat.  
“You can change your mind whenever,” his elder falters, speaking through the kisses he plants. “Just say no, and I’ll stop.”  
“I want this,” Light repeats as L latches onto a patch of skin halfway up his saliva-coated cock, as if he’s trying to create a love bite. The thought of that part of him being marked as L’s mere toy widens Light’s eyes and plays havoc with his respiration rate. Why does that sound so appealing?  
“Light, I mean it now, before I lose myself.” L’s voice only gets lower and more lascivious. “Do you really want this?”  
“I want you,” his younger breathes, enveloped in elation.  
“...I can’t believe how perfect you are,” the elder of the two claims after a short near-silence, sounding so very ravenous. “It’s unreal.”  
Those words wring Light’s heart, just like L’s tongue wrings his shaft. Before he has the chance to reply, his knuckles blanch and spontaneous shudders beset his bony framework as he expels perhaps the most pornographic sound humanly possible; this is so humiliating! Yet, he doesn’t want it to stop. He knows he should feel ashamed, but he doesn’t. He’s wrapping his thighs around the back of L’s neck, and L’s bobbing his head and taking every last inch of him into his stifling throat and tonguing at his most sensitive parts and, oh, it’s almost unbearable! Sweltering blood courses through the seams of Light’s being, flushing his skin; his pounding heart skips almost every other beat, and his stomach does flips. He’s impuissant under L’s iron grip, so submissive and sheepish, yet he loves the feeling of helplessness this gives him. That esurient mouth, so skilful and sultry, devours him as it would a meagre lollipop, reducing him to a scalded, squirming, mewling mass raring for release. He’s drowning in infernal impropriety that washes over him in asphyxiating waves, filling his overused lungs. Spellbound, he succumbs, wallowing in sensualism swamping his senses; he knows his only purpose at present is to please L, to be his prurient little plaything.  
“Oh, Kitten…” L coos once he pulls away again. A thin strip of saliva connecting his mouth and Light’s cock breaks as he speaks.  
“_L_,” Light whines as he twitches, begging to be handled.  
“_No_,” his elder growls, gripping his hips harder.  
“Ryuzaki,” the brunet frantically corrects himself.  
“Ah, good boy,” L says breathily, loosening his hold ever so slightly. “Tell me, are you a virgin?” he purrs, smirking to himself. He thinks he already knows the answer.  
“Eh?” his younger whispers. His already dilated pupils consume even more of his speckled irises.  
“You’re so close already,” L chuckles. “We’ve only just started.”  
“I…” Light thinks his words through, “...I guess?”  
More melodious chuckles permeate the air, sending a shiver down Light’s spine. His needy cock throbs, demanding attention, yet he keeps his hands in his elder’s hair, remaining docile and passive.  
“You guess?” L echoes, with an unchaste inquisitiveness.  
“Until…” the brunet trails off, omitting _that_ vulgar term.  
“Until what?” his dissipated elder goads him with honeyed words.  
“...Until you fuck me,” Light babbles. He can’t resist that voice; it gets under his skin and into his head and controls his every move, and he _lets_ it.  
“Oh?” L is briefly taken aback. His hot breath tickles Light’s wet skin, giving him goosebumps. “Until I fuck you? Would you like that, Kitten?”  
The grip on Light’s right hipbone loosens. All of a sudden, dexterous fingertips trail downwards, getting dangerously close to his entrance.  
“Don’t!” Light exclaims, recoiling as they brush against his bare arse. “Not yet.”  
Soon enough, his hip is pinned to the mattress once more. In frustration, he throws his left hand over his brow, grips L’s locks tighter, and whines. He must be good; he mustn’t touch himself, no matter how turned on he is. He has to put his pleasure into L’s benignant hands. He’s _his_.  
“Oral sex doesn’t count, then?” the elder of the two muses, capriciously removing his hand from that ecchymosed hipbone. “Have you had oral sex before, Light?” he queries, slowly trailing a fingertip down his desperate younger’s slick, swollen cock.  
“No,” the brunet mumbles through a mewl.  
“Has anyone touched you before?” That fingertip faintly nudges Light’s balls, forcing from him yet another gasp.  
“N-no,” he confirms with wide eyes.  
That hand finds its way to its prior place upon his hipbone.  
“I’m so honoured to be your first,” L declares in a dulcifying tone. “Never been fucked before, hm?” he asks, with indecent images rushing through his head. Being in complete control of this vestal little thing’s pleasure gets him so _hot_. “How precious. How would you have me fuck you, my kitten?”  
“Eh‽” Light’s flustered exclamation morphs into yet another gasp as a nimble tongue softly licks at his shaft.  
“Rough or slow?” L poses another avidity-driven question, too tired to think his utterances over.  
“_L_...” his younger moans as more tender kisses are laid upon his cock.  
“Don’t,” the detective says coldly, drawing away.  
“_Ryuzaki_!” Light whines, wriggling under L’s unremitting hold.  
“That’s it, good boy,” his elder glozes. “I should reward you for being so well-behaved tonight, shouldn’t I? Tell me what you want, Kitten.”  
“Let me finish. I need you,” Light all but moans, with locks of hair tangled amidst all his fingers.  
“You need my mouth,” his elder all but scoffs, with a hint of...disheartenment?  
“Need _you_,” the brunet emphasises.  
“...I swear you were made for me, Light,” is the last thing L utters before putting his mouth to good use.  
He hastens his pace, working wonders with his mouth alone, and Light immediately responds positively, getting louder by the second. _God_, the sight of him like this is beyond gorgeous! He’s so obviously inexperienced, and that gets L even more riled up; just the knowledge that he’s the first person to make Light feel this way makes him feel privileged, and so, so _satyric_. Oh, how he wants to make him beg and squirm and scream and cum so hard he forgets his name! He wants to command him; he wants to have this amenable boy at his mercy, and he wants complete _sovereignty_ over him, yet he knows he must be patient. His jeans have long-since grown uncomfortable, but he ignores his arousal, focusing every bit of his attention on his partner, whose whimpers are reverberating off the surrounding walls. This makes Light dizzy, to the extent that he feels he may pass out from the pleasure. L is the only thought filling his mind; all his misgivings are being overridden, and he wants this to last forever. He wants to show L his kitten belongs to him and him only, that Yagami Light is ready to be his obedient odaliskje if so desired! By now, he’s euphoric; these fleshly sensations are mercilessly ravaging him and, oh no, he can’t take any more!  
“L!” he cries, clutching his elder’s hair with both hands.  
Hearing Light so wantonly moan out his name makes L groan (which makes Light gasp again) and only encourages him to keep going, but he suppresses his licentious urges and stops in his tracks.  
“Y-you’re going to make me…” the brunet insinuates.

The corners of L’s moistened lips curl. The cock in his mouth quivers uncontrollably, so close to release. A lecherous tint in his eyes elicits frissons within Light’s overtired body.

Unexpectedly, Light’s hips are set free.

Immediately, the pair are working together in harmony; Light’s thrusting himself into L’s mouth and L’s matching this alacritous rhythm and gagging slightly whilst he’s pushing Light’s thighs against the sheet - this is all so overwhelming, for both of them! The meretricious sounds the brunet makes become louder and near-unbroken; all his overworked muscles contract, and his heart rate rises. The rapture builds and builds, and with one last lick to the head of his cock...

He finishes, with a noise loud enough to startle his nervy companion, whose face is tickled by downy, neatly-trimmed pubic hair as Light’s thighs put him in a headlock. L, intent on savouring the moment, relishes the sweet flavour of Light’s hot cum before tilting his head back and letting it run down his throat.

Definitely the best he’s ever tasted.

In his post-orgasmic daze, Light shakes, staring up at the blurry ceiling with blissed-out eyes. He lackadaisically throws a hand over his mouth to mask the noises he emits amidst his ragged breaths, and that’s when a pair of hands coil around his thighs. He looks down to find he’d wrapped them around L’s head as he climaxed. Savagely stabbed by shame, he averts his eyes as his elder pries himself from his vice.

Curiously, L creeps upwards, laying his palms flat on the mattress at either side of his companion’s waist. As he watches the shuddering boy look up at him with an ecstasy-filled gaze, he has a moment of enlightenment.

_I shouldn’t have done that_.

This clarity doesn’t linger, for aphrodisia clouds his thoughts. With each second he looks at Light, his desire grows, but he knows he can’t take advantage of this vulnerable, worn-out nebbish.  
“L, I…” Light begins breathily after removing his hand from his lips.  
“Hush, Pet,” L soothes, deciphering worry upon his younger’s fetching features. “Just rest. I’ll take care of myself tonight, but…in the future, I do expect you to return the favour.”  
Light nods, hiding his lips. L’s hungry eyes inspect his every feature, his every _flaw_, and he can’t help feeling self-conscious.  
“No,” he mumbles, barely intelligible.  
“Hm?” L replies at once. “What’s wrong?”  
“Don’t look at me,” Light requests sotto voce.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Yeah.”  
“You’re sure?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Is _this_,” L looks Light’s half-clad, quivering body over, “normal…?”  
“Mhm,” Light confirms with another nod.  
“How precious…” his elder marvels.  
Light hasn’t much time to reply. Soon, L is taking to his side of the bed again. Immediately, the brunet grabs the duvet and buries himself beneath it head to toe, wanting - no, _needing_ \- to hide from L’s ogling eyes. Abashment keeps festering within, but simultaneously, the knowledge that the man beside him is _touching himself_, perhaps even to thoughts of him, keeps his cheeks warm and makes him feel so _special_, so wanted, and so desirable. When L lets out a moan half-subdued by his palm, Light gets an urge to crawl over to him and please him however he desires, but he’s too tired to act on it. So tired, in fact, that the periodic, muffled noises L emits are the only things keeping him awake.

The last thing he hears before he drifts off are those stifled moans, then the opening of a drawer and the light thud of something being tossed into the nearby bin.

When he wakes, he is most addled by the lack of visible light. Then he realises he’s underneath the duvet. Apprehensively, he reaches up and pulls it over his eyes, peeking out. L sits beside him with his brow against his drawn-up knees, a blank stare, and limp arms. Unnerved by this vague gaze, Light hauls himself up and rests his head against his satiny, gold-trimmed white pillow. When L finally meets his eye line, he remembers last night.

Oh, God, last night! Was it...a dream?

Quizzically, he lifts the duvet and takes a look underneath.

He’s undressed from the hips downwards. It was _not_ a dream.

He audibly exhales, then sets himself into motion, hurriedly leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve his lower garments. He slips on his underwear in a flash, then hops out of bed to pull on his sweatpants. _This is bad_, he keeps thinking, repeating it over and over like a mantra.  
“Where are you going?” L, being pulled along by the chain, hazily queries as his frenzied younger starts to retreat.  
As usual, he receives no rejoinder. His exhausted limbs don’t want to move, and the ground beneath his feet feels _fake_, but he has to put up with it until Light stops in front of the bathroom door.  
“What do you want?” the elder of the two asks drowsily.  
“Shower,” his younger says speedily.  
Wordless, L acquiesces, uncuffing his suspect.

Almost as soon as Light’s inside the shower, he’s scrubbing at himself to try and remove last night’s remnants.

_Why did you let him do that? You so easily gave up your purity!_

_I’m not pure anymore_, he thinks as he cleanses himself.

_He saw all your fat. He saw just how revolting you are and now he’ll never want to touch you again._

_Got to wash the guilt off_, he tells himself.

_You’re always giving in. You have no self-command. You **like** being powerless, you pathetic little bitch!_

_I liked it_, he laments as he sinks to the bath’s base, resting his head on his knees. _I gave myself over to him, and I liked it_!

_You’re disgusting. Who would want to have sex with a pig like you? You’re a pitiful excuse for a man._

_I’m so big_, he realises when he looks himself over. That’s when he espies the bruises on his hips and the love bite on his…!

His disconnected streams of thought intertwine.

_A fat hog undeserving of Ryuzaki’s kindness!_

_Why would that happen? Why would you let that happen?_

_It felt nice, though. But why would you let that happen, Light? Why would you give up your purity? I mean, I knew I had to eventually, but...I shouldn’t have. But I wanted to._

_You **wanted** it. Just get out there and fall to your knees for him, you might as well let yourself be his slave. Return the favour._

_I’ve been...on my knees before, haven’t I? Wait..._

Faint, fuzzy memories begin to surface. He remembers strong hands wrapped around his numbed wrists and toned calves against his own immobilising him as an agile tongue licked at his neck. He remembers looking up at L, with his knees against the carpet. He remembers being held close and simply begging for release. He remembers his hard cock pressed up against L’s clad thigh; he remembers love bites and moaning and kissing but never touching because he kept misbehaving, and...oh, what have they been doing‽

_You’re so pathetic! A pathetic, weak little moll. I don’t deserve him._

_He expects nothing less than perfection. Just a few more pounds, then you can be good enough. Then he might like you._

_Just a few more pounds_, he repeats before he blanks.

“Light?”  
“What‽” he shouts back.  
“You’ve been a while,” L comments, troubled by his younger’s abrupt audaciousness.  
_What? I’ve been five minutes_, Light thinks. Regardless, he thinks it best to obey L, so he stands; his tailbone was starting to hurt, anyway. It takes him a moment to adjust to the lightheadedness. He grabs his shampoo, smears some across his hair, then rinses it off.

_He’ll never want to touch or kiss or hug you ever again. Maybe if you weren’t so grotesque, he’d actually like you. You know he’s only keeping you company out of obligation. The second he finds out you’re not Kira you’ll be abandoned, so just keep that filthy mouth of yours shut unless you’re sucking him off and hope for a miracle because nobody wants you here, not even your father. All you are is a disappointment._

A chill runs through him as the steady flow of water comes to a halt. He blinks in bewilderment, then notices L’s fingertips coiling around the shower curtain.  
“Answer me, or I’ll open the curtain,” he threatens.  
Soundlessly, Light takes a few steps in his elder’s direction, then lets his own fingertips caress the curtain and peeks out with a single eye.  
“Why weren’t you answering me?” L questions, with confusion upon his countenance. “You worried me, you’ve been thirty minutes. Get out,” he says as he offers up a towel.  
Light takes it, then retreats behind the curtain and conceals himself within its cushiony fabric, draping it over his shoulders. 

_Your body is revolting. Keep it hidden._

He’s unsure how long passes before L draws back the curtain and beckons him out.  
“Come on,” he urges, “let’s have breakfast. What would you like?”  
Without words, Light stares at the bath’s brim.  
“Light?” L lifts the brunet’s chin to meet his gaze.

Those mottled umber eyes are so demoralisingly desolate. He’s seen this look before. Light’s regressing again.

“Oh no,” L says under his breath, donning a rattled expression, “what have I done to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> I might have gotten a bit carried away with the smut. Sorry if it’s bad or cringeworthy or too metaphorical or not graphic enough; it’s not really my forte, but I hope to improve with time. I’m open to concrit about it if you have any.
> 
> Also, need I mention how irresponsible of L it was to do that? PSA: maybe don’t have sex with someone who’s still in recovery from a nervous fucking breakdown. Aye aye aye.


End file.
